Fight or Flight
by Mals86
Summary: Tommy Conlon, the wrestler described as a "freshman prodigy" in a newspaper article, has a lot to lose when he travels across the country with his mother to try to make a new life somewhere else, away from his abusive father and the brother he misses so much. Even making a new, good friend in Tacoma isn't enough to make things change.
1. Chapter 1: Killer Instinct

**Fight or Flight**

_**The fight-or-flight response, also known as the acute stress response, refers to a physiological reaction that occurs in the presence of something that is terrifying, either mentally or physically. The fight-or-flight response was first described in the 1920s by American physiologist Walter Cannon. Cannon realized that a chain of rapidly occurring reactions inside the body help mobilize the body's resources to deal with threatening circumstances. **_

_**In response to acute stress, the body's sympathetic nervous system is activated due to the sudden release of hormones. The sympathetic nervous systems stimulates the adrenal glands triggering the release of catecholamines, which include adrenaline and noradrenaline. This results in an increase in heart rate, blood pressure and breathing rate. The fight-or-flight response is also known as the acute stress response. Essentially, the response prepares the body to either fight or flee the threat. It is also important to note that the response can be triggered due to both real and imaginary threats.**_** (Taken from Psychology dot-about dot-com website.)**

**This fic, by the way, will be totally unrelated to my other Warrior fics. There may be some similar elements, but essentially speaking, this is not the Tommy of The Long Road Home.**

Chapter 1

Tommy Conlon grabbed his duffel bag out of the back seat, popped open the passenger side door of the Oldsmobile and hopped out, heading up the cement steps at a fast clip. "Where's the fire, kiddo?" Pop called from the car, but he was amused instead of pissed off, so Tommy kept going. Straight into the house, through the living room, into the kitchen, right to Mom, who was just turning away from the sink in surprise.

"You're back," she said, happy, and Tommy ran right at her, dropping the bag on the floor.

"I won!" He picked her up and spun her around, ignoring her little squeal. "I won, I won!"

"I know, honey," she said, still smiling, as he set her down and she straightened her dress. "I know, it was on TV. We taped it." She reached up to kiss his cheek. "I'm so proud of you. One step closer to that scholarship, isn't it?"

"Hope so. Three more years to wrestle – I wanna win 'em _all._" Mom laughed, and he looked around. "Where's Brendan?" Usually his brother was right there to congratulate him after a match. Brendan would probably commiserate with him if he lost, but that hadn't been necessary so far. And anyway, it just didn't feel right to not have Brendan's grin in his face, Brendan's thump on his shoulders.

Mom nodded toward the dining room. "Doing homework with a friend." The front door opened, and Mom went to greet Pop. Tommy grabbed the thing out of his duffel bag and went into the dining room, wondering why Brendan would be doing homework on the Sunday afternoon after the state wrestling tournament, and who he'd be doing it with.

_Oh. That girl. _

But there was Brendan, getting up from the table and coming toward him, and Tommy hugged him big. Everything, good or bad, was always better with Brendan's arms around him. "Good job, little bro," Brendan said. They were the right words, and Brendan's smile was proud as always, but something about his voice seemed off. Like he was tired, or something.

"Got you a little something," Tommy said, unfolding the tournament t-shirt he'd bought his brother with his own money. If Brendan couldn't make it there on his own – he'd lost, by points, at Regionals and come in third in his weight class – then the least Tommy could do was share the experience somehow. "Woulda been more fun if you'd made it to States, but I thought you might like this anyway. And maybe you can make it next year."

"Oh thanks," Brendan said flatly, losing his smile, and Tommy pulled up short, blinking. What had he said wrong? Brendan was so touchy these days.

And then Pop was in the dining room with them, one arm around Mom's waist, asking, "And who's_ this?_" in that tone he got when anybody visited.

"Pop," Brendan said, and let go of Tommy. "This is Tess Mahoney. We – we're working on a project for history class. Tess, this is my dad."

The girl stood up, smiled, and offered her hand to shake. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Conlon."

"No, no, my pleasure," Pop said, with a smile for her. "Carry on with that project, then. How about some fresh coffee, woman?" he said to Mom.

"Comin' right up," Mom said, and went back in the kitchen.

"You see Tommy's medal?" Pop asked Brendan, gesturing. He put his arm around Tommy's shoulders and squeezed. "_That's_ my boy." Pop's pride was about the best feeling in the world, and Tommy couldn't keep the grin off his face.

"Hard not to," Brendan said. He smiled, but it was only a mouth smile. "It's pretty shiny."

"You shoulda had one a' those," Pop said to Brendan. "If you'd trained a little harder, put some effort in like your brother."

From the kitchen, Mom called, "Paddy? You want cream and sugar, or just sugar?" and Pop nodded to them and went into the kitchen.

"Only _you _would wear that all the way home in the car," Brendan said to Tommy.

"What's wrong with that?" Tommy asked, feeling somehow that the pleasure had gone out of coming home victorious. It didn't feel right, Brendan not being happy for him. Brendan more interested in That Girl, that felt weird and wrong.

Brendan shook his head and didn't answer the question. There was a brief silence, while Tommy just looked at Brendan, trying to figure out what had his brother's shorts in a wad. The girl looked at Brendan. Brendan stared down at the papers on the table, his mouth sort of pinched up. The girl turned her head back to Tommy. "Hi," she said. "Congratulations." Then she poked Brendan's elbow, and Brendan finally looked back up.

"Oh. Yeah. Tess, this is my brother Tommy. You know Tess, don't you, Tommy?"

Of course Tommy knew Tess Mahoney. Knew_ of_ her, anyway. She was one of the prettiest cheerleaders at Taylor Allderdice High School: blonde hair, long legs, big toothpaste smile. Everybody liked her. There were bathroom stall door messages written in Sharpie about how dozens of guys wanted to wear her like a collar, but she wouldn't put out. Too pure. Nice Catholic girl. Brendan had had a crush on her for, like, _ever_.

And by the way Tess Mahoney was smiling at Brendan, she had a crush on him too. _She_ was the reason Brendan had slacked off on his training over the last month. _She_ was the reason Tommy'd gotten a C in English, because Brendan usually helped him with his homework when Pop went overboard with Tommy's training, but Bren hadn't been around much lately. He was over at Tess' house studying (studying, yeah, _right_), or at her church's youth group, or at a party with her.

Tommy, suddenly feeling left out and hollow, feeling too young and too skinny and not good-looking enough for a girlfriend, lied out loud. "No," he said, flat and rude like he didn't care. If Brendan was going to be an asshole about the tournament and spend all his free time with somebody not family, he could go piss up a tree. _Great, now I'm going to have to confess to lying and using profane language. And jealousy._

Tess Mahoney's Crest smile slid right off her face, and Brendan narrowed his eyes. "Well. Tommy, this is Tess." The tone of his voice said, _And you better shape up and treat her nice, too, or you'll regret it._

Fine, he'd play along. Make nicey-nice with That Girl. "Pleasure to meet you, Tess." He realized that he'd been balling up the new t-shirt in his hands, crumpling it, ever since Brendan had started making snarky remarks, and tried to smooth it out.

Mom came up behind him and ruffled his hair. "I made you some brownies. You kids want some?"

_Brownies, my favorite, awesome_. Tommy, moving to hug Mom again, saw Brendan make a face. Brendan didn't really like brownies – who doesn't like _brownies?_ – and he'd always rather have peanut butter cookies. "Yes, please. And some milk."

"I'd love a brownie, thanks, Mrs. Conlon," That Girl said. She was being really nice, pretending she didn't feel the tension in the room, and Tommy was halfway to giving her an approving nod before he remembered the code: _Just us. We keep ourselves to ourselves. We don't need anybody's nose in our business._ It had been second nature since the time Mom had to go to the hospital, when Tommy was five, and the social services people started nosing around. It was the code, the Conlon code, and Brendan seemed poised to break it for That Girl. Tommy glared at his brother.

"Milk and brownies all around, then," Mom said, and kissed him again. "Gotta feed my boys. You hungry, Tommy?"

Before Tommy could even answer her, Brendan snorted out loud. "When is he not?"

"Brendan," Mom said, mildly reproving. "I mean, do you want something else before the brownie, Tommy?"

"No, we ate a pretty good lunch on the way back from Hershey. But thank you. Just brownie, please. Can I have two, though?"

"No," Pop said from the kitchen. "Too much sugar. You know the rules, Tom."

"Can't I take the week off? As a, you know, celebration?" Tommy had been hoping for that. He knew that most of the high school athletes got a few days of rest after a big competition, before going back to serious training. Most Olympic athletes, too, they could take a week off heavy training before getting back to the grind.

"You got Junior Olympics comin' up," Pop said. "No can do, son."

"Juniors is in July. The _end _of July," Tommy protested. That was more than four months away. "Not even a couple of days?"

"Four months, Paddy," Mom said, cajoling. "You always say you can do a lot of conditioning in a short period of time."

"You tellin' me what to do?" It wasn't quite Pop's warning voice, but it was heading in that direction.

"Not at all," Mom said calmly. "I just know you two do a good job together, and you always say good work should be rewarded."

"Winning's the reward," Pop pointed out. "But fine. Against my better judgment, you can have a coupla days off. We go hard again Thursday morning, kiddo, got me?"

"Yes sir." Tommy caught That Girl giving him a sympathetic look, and it stung. _Who do you even think you are?_ he thought furiously in her direction.

That night, Tommy was in bed long before Brendan came home, but he wasn't asleep. Too much adrenaline, still, probably – the phone had rung several times since they got home, some of Pop's buddies calling to congratulate him, and Tommy had told the story of his tournament win probably six times over. And tomorrow at school, he'd probably get his name on the morning announcements. Get his picture up in the "Hall of Fame" outside the school office, since anybody who won anything at the state level got their picture up… that'd be cool.

And maybe some of the JV cheerleaders would notice. Amanda Packard, Shannan Fitzroy, Lucia Allegretti… Lucia looked a lot like Alyssa Milano. He started wondering what Lucia Allegretti would look like taking off her little tank top… and lifting her little short skirt… the simple thought of cheerleader T&A got him hard in, like, ten seconds. Brendan was gone, and it was quiet downstairs, only the TV on and soft relaxed adult voices. Privacy was such a rarity, he might as well take care of the issue. Tommy put one knee up under the covers, making a little space, and pulled his boxers out of the way.

He had a good mental picture of Lucia naked and a firm grip on his wood when the front door finally opened. _Shit_. (Oops. Another one to keep track of for Father McMahon. And the lustful thoughts, too. Better to confess than walk around for the next three days with the pressure building up in his balls, though.) Tommy, freezing with his hand on his stiffie, gave up on the idea of getting done before Brendan came upstairs. But there was Pop talking downstairs, "So how well do you know that girl? Is she your girlfriend?"

"Yes," Brendan said, defensive. "Yes, she is my girlfriend."

Tommy, though he'd known it for some time, still felt a swooping feeling in his stomach, hearing Brendan say it. For the first time ever, his brother had put someone else ahead of family. There was a big difference, in Tommy's opinion, between thinking about Capital-G-Girls in the abstract and having one specific real girl in the particular. What if she didn't understand Brendan's loyalties? What if she came over sometime when Pop was on the sauce? Disaster.

"You wanna watch it, then," Pop said. "You were gone a long time, taking her home."

"It takes awhile, on the bus," Brendan said, clearly wishing Pop had agreed to let him take That Girl home in the Olds. "All the way to Squirrel Hill and back. I went inside and talked to her parents for a little while. Just getting to know them, being mannerly."

"Next time I'll make a pan of brownies for them, too," Mom said, sounding pleased. "It's nice to take a little gift when you visit with people."

"You still spent a lot of time at it," Pop said. "You be careful with girls. You can get in trouble real quick."

Brendan sighed. "Before you tell me to keep it in my pants and not get her pregnant, Pop, she's not like that."

"Don't talk like that in front of your mother, boy." _Oh God please_. Pop's tone of voice… if Brendan didn't lay off the sass, Pop might make him sorry. Tommy sighed and pulled his boxers back up.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Brendan said. "But you know she's not like that. And I don't like the implication that I'm like that."

"It's all right," Mom said. Smoothing things over, like always. "I know, honey. You're good kids. Now you go on and get your rest, you have school tomorrow." There was the soft sound of Mom kissing Brendan's cheek, and then Pop turned the TV back up for some cop show he and Mom were watching.

Then Brendan's feet on the stairs, Brendan's relief so profound Tommy could almost hear it. He came in with a light step and the faint scent of perfume on his jacket, and it just made Tommy hornier and more annoyed at being interrupted. Brendan turned on the lamp between their beds and kicked off his shoes. "_Dude_," he said. "What were you doin'?"

"Like you don't know," Tommy snapped back. "Like you don't do it under your covers when you think I'm asleep. At least you were outta the house when I got started. And you got back before I got done, so how about you apologize to _me_?"

Brendan exhaled through his nose, and started getting undressed. "I'm not apologizing for interruptin' your jack session. Who were you thinkin' about?" He yanked off his jeans and padded barefoot to the dresser. "_God_. Can you _please_ find somewhere else to put your endless stupid trophies? There's no room on this thing."

"Alyssa Milano." Might as well lie, he already had so many things to confess next Saturday, and if Bren found out he had the hots for Lucia Allegretti he'd never hear the end of it.

Brendan pulled a pair of gym shorts out of the drawer and put them on, then traded his good t-shirt for a ragged Pirates tee that really should have already hit the ragbag, except that it was soft to sleep in. "She's hot," he offered in a conciliatory tone. "You and your brown-eyed girls, huh?"

"I guess." There was a pause while Brendan stuffed some papers into his backpack and pulled out a clean school shirt for tomorrow. Tommy settled onto his back again, hoping his dick would go soft so he could get some sleep. "Bren? Are you in love with her?"

"With Alyssa Milano?" Brendan grinned over his shoulder.

"No, dumbass. With That Girl."

"Her name is _Tess,_ Tommy. And don't let Pop hear you swear." He pulled back the covers on his bed, then turned out the lamp. Tommy heard the springs on the bed creak as Brendan got in.

"You are, aren't you?" He heard his own voice, sounding mad. Why did he care so much? Why shouldn't Brendan get to have a girlfriend? Plenty of guys had girlfriends. Tommy's best friend – best being relative, because nobody was better than Bren – Jason Firebaugh had a girlfriend, even though Jason was 5'3" and 110 pounds soaking wet, with a big nose.

Brendan sighed. "I don't know. Maybe." There was another silence. "I've never… Tommy, I don't know what I'm doin', okay? But when I kiss her… it's so sweet. It's just, I don't know, it feels like heaven. It feels like the most beautiful thing ever, so beautiful I feel like crying."

_Wow._ Tommy, not knowing what to say, said nothing. He just, he just didn't get it. For all he knew, Pop and Mom used to feel like that about each other, and look at them now.

"Forget about it." Brendan sighed again. "Never mind."

"Why do you talk to Pop like that? It just makes him mad. And it's Mom he takes it out on."

"I didn't mean to. But you know how he talks about girls sometimes, like they're out to trap guys in marriage. Like they're only good for sex and making babies and taking care of the house. It makes me mad, you know?"

"I don't really know any girls," Tommy admitted. "Not, you know, like friends."

"Tess likes you. She said you have a great smile and a lot of enthusiasm."

Tommy did not want his brother's hot cheerleader girlfriend to _like him_, like he was some puppy that needed patting on the head. Already he was foreseeing all her cheerleader friends pinching his cheek, saying, "Aww, isn't he cute? Such a pretty boy. So enthusiastic." Chances were, they still wouldn't go out with him. But Brendan was trying to cheer him up, so he'd return the favor. "Really wish you'd gone to States. You're good. You know, Pop was right. If you just worked harder…"

"Shut up."

"Seriously. There were guys in my weight class who weren't as good as you. You just gotta develop that killer instinct, you know? Not let up."

"Oh yeah, 'cause we'd _all _be better off with a killer instinct." Brendan sounded sarcastic.

"I mean on the mat. Not at home."

"Shut _up,_ Tommy."

_I was just trying to help_. For just a second, tears came into Tommy's eyes, and he blinked them away. How come it felt like Brendan was leaving him behind all of a sudden? "This sucks," he said out loud, and he could hear his own voice, sort of thick. "I hate it when you're mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you," Brendan said, and his voice was tired. Like they'd had this conversation six million times instead of never. "Look… you wanna go ahead and finish, I'll shove the pillow over my head. I won't listen."

Tommy's dick leapt right back to flagpole status, ignoring his embarrassment. "You sure?"

"Promise. I know how it gets sometimes when you don't finish… maybe next time I'm desperate, you can ignore me and _not_ gimme shit about it, deal?"

Too good to pass up. "Deal." This time around it was Alyssa Milano in his head for real, whispering about how big he was and how good he made her feel, and it didn't take long at all. Tommy went to sleep with the wet tissues crumpled up in his hand, thinking, _Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm a big shot at school. And Juniors, next. Things can only get better._


	2. Chapter 2: Kissing Christine Keagy

Tommy found himself thinking, _This could be the best Monday of my entire life_, when his eyes popped open. _Nice to sleep in and not get up at 5am to run._ The clock-radio was set to play at 6:40am, and Pearl Jam was blasting out of the speakers, "Better Man." These were lyrics Tommy had learned without even trying, the way this song got played everywhere all the time:

_Memories back when she was bold and strong  
And waiting for the world to come along...  
Swears she knew it, now she swears he's gone_

_She lies and says she's in love with him_

_Can't find a better man_

It made him sad for some reason. By the time he got out of bed he was awake enough to see that Brendan was on his side, facing the wall, and there was a stealthy sort of movement under his blanket. Tommy left the radio on and just grabbed clothes out of the dresser. As he tugged on his jeans, there was a noticeable squeak to Brendan's bedsprings and a muffled moan, and Tommy bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. He put on clean socks and a red t-shirt, and started to head downstairs.

Two steps down, he turned and stuck his head back into the room and said, "I hope you notice I was on my side of the room not buggin' you. And leaving the music on for cover. We square?"

"Shut up," Brendan said, but he didn't sound mad. "This would be easier if we still had a _door_."

"Well, whose fault is that?" Tommy asked.

"Who had me in a _headlock?_" Brendan demanded, sitting up and throwing his pillow at the doorframe. "I can't help where my feet go when I can't breathe, you… _ruthless_… you idiot."

Tommy ducked the pillow easily, laughing, and went on downstairs for breakfast. This late in the morning, Pop would already be gone for first shift at the mill, and the feeling of the house was warm and relaxed. He could smell coffee and… sausage? He went into the kitchen and grabbed a glass, pouring milk into it, and putting his arm around his mother, who was at the stove cooking apple slices in a pan. The platter on the countertop held sausage and scrambled eggs, and there were chocolate-chip muffins next to it.

"Wow," he said. "All this? On a school morning?"

"You got three days," Mom said, and her eyes gleamed up at him. "Your dad said so. Back to the low-fat, high-protein diet on Thursday, but until then you eat like a king, kid."

"Thank you, Mom."

"If it was up to me, I'd cook like this for you every day, honey. I had a blast cooking things Brendan likes while you and your father were in Hershey for the tournament, Friday night and Saturday. And Sunday morning."

"Yeah? You guys had a good time?"

"We rented a video, too. 'Speed.' I liked it – that Sandra Bullock, she's a firecracker."

Well, it was good to know Brendan hadn't had a totally sucky weekend. "He get his peanut butter cookies?" Tommy grinned and grabbed a plate, putting plenty of everything on it.

"We killed a batch between us," Mom confessed ruefully. "I shouldn't, it's not good for my figure. Even though your brother ate the most of them."

"You're beautiful," Tommy told her. He knew, of course he knew, about the bar women. It wasn't even a secret, really: Pop pretended to Mom that the bar women didn't exist, and Mom pretended to Pop that she didn't know about them. Stupid. Because when Pop was off the whiskey, when things were going well, he was all lovey-dovey with Mom – kissing her hand, dancing her around the living room, pulling her into his lap in the recliner. And she seemed to love that as much as he did, all the sweet words and the kissing.

But Tommy knew that those times never lasted. He was waiting, even now, for the other shoe to drop. For Pop to get mad at some dumb thing at work, or some anniversary of the death of some guy he served with Vietnam, something like that, and he wouldn't be home by 4pm from the mill, he'd go straight on to the Steeltown Tavern and spend three or four hours drinking. And then he'd come home and make it hell.

Tommy was just hoping that the state championship kept Pop going for at least a couple of weeks. When Pop could take his two boys around with him, show them off, brag on them, he usually managed to stay sober long enough to keep doing it. It was always the bad stuff that pushed him off beer and onto the whiskey, and everything had been good stuff lately.

"Is Brendan up?" Mom wanted to know.

"Yeah, he'll be fine. Plenty of time to make the bus," Tommy told her, and took his plate and milk into the dining room. "You eatin'?"

"Ate with your father earlier," Mom said. She brought the pan into the dining room and scooped some fried apples onto his plate. Her face was pink, and there was a little smile tilting the corner of her full mouth. "So. You got any requests for dinner during those three free days?"

"Absolutely. The roast beef was good last night, so can we have it again? The leftovers. Like beef stew or something? Or – no, that stroke-off thing you made last winter. With the noodles."

"Stroganoff."

"Yeah, that's it." Uh-oh, he had jacking off on the brain or something. But Mom didn't say anything about it, at least. "And maybe pork chops. Or that chicken thing with the tomatoes and celery, that's good. Or steak, if it's not too expensive. Any of that."

"Okay, I'll see what I can find on sale at the market today," Mom said. She took the pan back into the kitchen and brought her coffee into the dining room, settling at her spot.

Brendan came pounding down the stairs. "Tommy, you seen my Steelers hoodie?"

"Ain't it on the coatrack?" He knew it was there – he'd hung it up there last night, hoping Brendan wouldn't have noticed it was gone over the weekend.

"Here it is. Quit stealin' it, you brat." Brendan went into the kitchen, tugging the hoodie down to his waist.

"Well, you never wear it." Tommy took an enormous bite of eggs.

"That's 'cause you're always _stealing_ it."

"They don't call it a Steelers hoodie for nothin'," Mom said, and Tommy nearly dropped his fork.

Brendan poked his head into the dining room, incredulous. "Mom! Did you just make a joke?"

"Sure did," she said, and grinned at him.

_This is a good, good day_, Tommy thought to himself. _Big breakfast, excellent dinner to come, Pop in a good mood, my name will be on the morning announcements, and Mom just made a joke? It's one for the record books._

Brendan came in and set his plate down at his place, stopping to hug Mom. "Great breakfast, Mom, thanks. How'd we rate a Sunday breakfast on Monday? Awesome."

Mom leaned up and kissed Brendan's cheek, smiling, and Tommy had the sudden thought that if Pop would just give up the booze permanently, breakfasts could always be like this. Well, maybe Tommy would be eating egg whites and melon and cottage cheese instead of sausage and fried apples, but the relaxed feeling in the room, _that's_ what he'd want. Forever.

He and Brendan finished breakfast and jockeyed for space in front of the bathroom sink, brushing their teeth. Tommy went back up to their room to grab a sweatshirt out of the dresser, a Penn State one that had a black spot on the sleeve. He hadn't rolled the sleeves up high enough the last time he'd helped Pop change the oil in the Oldsmobile. But if Brendan was going to claim the Steelers hoodie that hard, fine. It was still chilly enough outside that he needed something warm over his t-shirt.

"Hey!" Brendan called from downstairs. "Bus down the street, I can see it."

"Coming." Tommy jumped down the last five steps, landing solidly. He grabbed his backpack and followed his brother out the door, calling, "Bye, Mom!"

"Bye, sweethearts," she called back, and Tommy shut the door behind him.

Brendan stood back and let Tommy get on the bus first, and then he sat in the seat right next to Tommy. Which was nice, especially since he'd been in such a pissy mood yesterday. Of course he had to check in with his buddy Jordan Williams and then a couple of girls, but then he was pressing his shoulder warm against Tommy's. "Hey, Mr. Big Shot, you ready for fame and fortune?"

"Sure." Tommy leaned into Brendan's shoulder. It was his favorite position in the world, ever, even counting hugs from Mom. Or Pop, for that matter, because Tommy was always safe with Brendan around. If Pop was raging downstairs, sometimes Brendan would still come over and get into bed with Tommy and they'd hang on to each other. Nothing bad would ever happen with Brendan's shoulder pressed up against his. "Hey. Pop sounded okay last night, right? No… no booze." He whispered the last word.

"No. He'd had a few by the time I came in, but just beer. He was pretty mellow."

"He stays pretty mellow when I do good, you know." He bit his lip, knowing this was probably not going to make Bren happy, but wanting to say it anyway. "You know… maybe you should try letting him train you again."

"He don't wanna train me," Brendan said, and his voice was resigned, like he couldn't do anything to change that.

"Yes, he does. He just wants you to do it his way."

"I can't _do _that," Brendan said, disgusted. "Seriously. I do not know how in the world you do that training regimen. It's insane. You run like five miles a day and then you do weights forever and then you practice holds and flexibility exercises, and you flip tires and jump rope and do wind sprints, and it _never stops_. You never have time for basketball or stickball. I don't know how you get your schoolwork done, much less _not die_." He eyed Tommy. "You hear those guys commentating at the tournament about how he's making you work too hard? Calling him 'controversial?' And the other coaches think he's gonna break you down before you even finish high school."

"He ain't gonna break me down," Tommy said indignantly. "I've never even had so much as a sprained ankle. I'm plenty healthy."

"You're lucky," Brendan said. "Lucky you're flexible but not flexible enough to hyperrotate. Lucky you got that build."

"Our body shapes are similar," Tommy pointed out. "'Cept I still got some growing to do. I hope."

"You'll grow. You just turned 15, you'll be fine." Brendan patted his thigh and then turned back to Jordan and started talking about some soccer game Jordan had played in over the weekend.

But something Brendan said was nagging at Tommy now… schoolwork. Schoolwork, _shit_. (Whoops, another one for Father McMahon.) He'd had a science vocabulary homework thing to do, and he hadn't done it. He'd been caught up in the excitement of the tournament, and he had just flat _forgotten_. He shook his head. Maybe Mrs. Haynesworth would give him until tomorrow, even if she took off a letter grade for it being late.

Nothing he could do about it right at the moment, anyway. He turned his mind to another issue.

"Hey, Bren?" he asked, interrupting Jordan and getting a dirty look. "Sorry, man. Just gotta ask him somethin'." Brendan turned to him, obviously Being Patient. "I was wonderin'… you think if we go to the dump we could pick up a used door and hang it in our room? I mean, while I got a few days off training."

Brendan blinked, and raised his eyebrows. "That could work."

Last summer, when Tommy and Brendan had gotten into that clinch in their room and Brendan had accidentally kicked a hole in the door – it had never been a _good_ door anyway, it was hollow-core and thin as paper – Pop had come storming up the stairs and given each one of them half a dozen solid whacks with his belt. Then he'd fiddled with the hinges for two minutes, lifted the ruined door off them, and taken it out to the trash, leaving Brendan and Tommy to stare at each other in blank consternation.

And at dinner that night, everybody silent to keep from provoking him further, Pop had eaten a bite of meatloaf and pointed his fork first at Brendan and then at Tommy before speaking. "If you boys can't take care of your things, you don't get to keep 'em. I'm not payin' to replace that door, and don't ask me to. Copy?"

"Yes sir," Brendan had said quickly. Tommy, nauseous with guilt, had just nodded.

But if Pop didn't have to pay for it, maybe he wouldn't mind. No labor for him, no cash out of pocket. Pop was always saying things like "Take care of your own possessions," and "If you want somethin', go get it. Don't expect it to just be provided for you." He and Brendan could be proactive and responsible, and Pop would probably like that.

So. That would be his afternoon, his and Brendan's. He settled back into the bus seat, satisfied with the plan.

* * *

The school day went pretty much like he'd expected it to go, with one notable exception. His championship had, indeed, been made much of on the morning announcements, probably the more so because he'd been the only TAHS wrestler to make it to States this season, and the first one to win a championship in like fifteen years. The three cheerleaders in his World Geography class in first period did a little cheer for him, and he'd felt his ears bloom with heat as his grin took over his face, but he wouldn't forget that anytime soon. Rebecca Mueller, Amanda Packard, and Lucia Allegretti, in jeans and baby tees, were almost as cute as they were in cheerleader skirts. Just as cute, really.

And he was prepared for the quiz in that class. He'd finished his algebra homework. He'd even read a whole chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird between matches on Saturday and answered the questions for that chapter in the back of the book. Only the science homework was lacking, and his teacher had given him a stern but sympathetic look and said, "Turn it in tomorrow, Tommy. I'll have to take off points for lateness, but I'll accept it."

He'd eaten lunch with some of the other wrestlers, who, even though he didn't condition with them and only practiced mat work, seemed to consider him a full-fledged member of the team. He'd had his back slapped by countless guys and been smiled at by dozens of girls.

And after lunch, right before fifth period, junior cheerleader Christine Keagy had snagged him by the shirt sleeve and tugged him along with her, saying, "You're Tommy Conlon, right? Can I talk to you a minute?"

"Sure," he'd said, because where Christine Keagy might look something like Tess Mahoney, all blonde ponytail and big smile and long legs, she was a different person. For one thing, the bathroom stall doors said Christine Keagy _did _put out. And so what if Tommy liked brunettes better than blondes? It was _Christine Keagy_.

The distinct marker of high school status was to be referred to, always, by first and last names by the general student population, as if you were some kind of celebrity. Your best friend could still call you by first name, even if you were popular, but chances were that if _you_ were popular, your best friend was too. That is, the popular kids, the ones with athletic status, they all ran in the same circles.

It was not, he was thinking as he followed Christine Keagy's tugging hand down the hall and then down the steps by the gym, that status mattered all that much in the grand scheme of things. Being popular in itself didn't make you richer or a better person or even necessarily happier, or so much he could tell from watching those popular kids. But it was better than being a nobody.

Christine Keagy stepped into the alcove under the bottom flight of stairs, near the football equipment storage room, and pulled Tommy in close to her. She was almost his height, and he could look directly into her blue eyes. People called them "sparkly," and Tommy decided that was right. She didn't waste any time, either. "Do you wanna kiss me?" she asked.

Which was quite possibly the dumbest question he'd ever been asked. Like, ever. "Hell, yeah," he said (oops, another one. He might as well stop counting them up for Confession and just lump them all under "swearing"), and stepped closer. She smelled like peach and bubblegum and some kind of flower, and while some other time he would have been content to just stick his nose in her neck and sniff, she'd offered lip contact and he wasn't passing that up, no way.

Just as he was about to put his mouth on hers and find out what she tasted like, she put her hand on his chest. "Wait. You ever kissed anybody before?"

He was startled enough to answer that with the truth. "No." He'd never had time, really, to get close enough to a girl to do more than just think about it, that wank session last night notwithstanding.

"Okay, well, then, here's a few pointers: be gentle. Don't stick your tongue down my throat. And just… follow me, okay? Do what I do."

"I can do that." Easy as pie. Not hard at all. Nowhere near as hard as his dick was, without even touching her, with just the idea of kissing in his head._ Jesus, I'm such a pervert._

She reached her hand up to the side of his face, then trailed a finger across his mouth. "Wow, your lips are so soft," she said, and her eyes got big. "This oughta be fun." And then Tommy was leaning toward her, letting her put her closed mouth against his and just press them together. They did that for a little bit, just sliding their lips together, and then her lips parted a little and he let her slide her tongue over his top lip, and then all the way into his mouth. She tasted like bubblegum, too. His brain shut off in the pleasure of it, little fireworks going off in his head and elsewhere. When the bell for fifth period rang and she pulled away, he realized that he had one hand on her hip and the other at the back of her neck, and she was pressed all the way up against his hard-on with her hands on his shoulders. His heart was beating super-fast.

"I'm late for chemistry already," she said, a little breathless and wide-eyed. "Meet me here tomorrow lunchtime, okay?"

He just nodded, trying to figure it out. _Girls really act like this?_

She went around him and started up the stairs, then turned back. "You never did that before?" He shook his head, staring at how pink her lips were and trying to get some breath back in his lungs. "You're a natural at it. You're a really good kisser, Tommy Conlon."

_State champ. Full name status. Kissing Christine Keagy. Jackpot._

"So," he said up the stairs, to her back. "Do you like me, then?"

She stopped again. "I try to reward athletic excellence at TAHS," she said, winking at him. "And yeah, I like you. You're cute. I just… never noticed before."

_Huh._

Thank God he had on relaxed fit jeans and his t-shirt was long. He went on to study hall, walking in late and taking the tardy slip from Ms. Neathawk. If Pop found out, he'd be mad, but maybe he wouldn't find out. He'd just have to watch his time tomorrow and not get another one, or he'd go to ISS and then Pop would find out. Gotta avoid that. He made his way to his seat in the middle of the room, past Gary Martin and Dillon Quaine, who immediately started whispering at him. "Dude, what is up with your face?" Gary wanted to know.

"Yeah, you have pink on it," Dillon told him.

Tommy opened his backpack and pulled out the science vocab he hadn't finished, not answering.

"_Dude_," Gary protested, and Tommy grinned.

"Christine Keagy's lip gloss," he said, and they both nodded in understanding.

"Lucky you," Dillon said, and Tommy just nodded before wiping his face and getting down to business with the vocab.

Between sixth and seventh periods Brendan bumped into him in the hall. Literally bumped, ramming his shoulder right into Tommy's, and by the time Tommy turned his head to see _what the hell,_ Brendan was grinning over his shoulder at him. He was wearing the state tournament t-shirt, which Tommy hadn't noticed before because Bren had been wearing his Steelers hoodie over it. "Thanks for the shirt!" Brendan called down the hall, and Tommy gave him a thumbs up and a grin.

It was a good day. A good, good day.

* * *

Two hours later it was _not_ such a good day. He and Brendan had used the school phone to call Mom and tell her their plans. That they had this door project to work on and they'd be home in a while, and then Brendan had kissed Tess Mahoney, right in front of Tommy, and told her he'd call her later. Walking away, she blew Brendan a kiss and then waved at Tommy, so of course he had to wave back. And then they'd taken the bus to the dump/recycling center/junkyard down near the river to find a door. Which they had, a nice solid wood one that hadn't been rained on and wasn't peeling paint.

The problem they hadn't addressed, of course, was getting it home. No bus driver would let them on with the door, and they couldn't pay for a taxi even if they could get the door_ in _the taxi, which they probably couldn't anyway. So they hoofed it, carrying the door, and after twenty minutes Brendan had started to cuss nonstop about the door being solid wood. "Shut up," Tommy said.

"This was your fault," Brendan said, blowing hair out of his eyes. "Set it down a minute?"

"Sure."

While they were standing there, an open pickup with "Moore's Construction" painted on the side pulled over. The driver, a middle-aged black man, leaned his head out the window. "You boys got you a job haulin' that thing, don'tcha?"

"Yes sir," Tommy said.

"Oooh, _sir_. I like that. Where you goin'?"

"Hillcrest Street," Brendan told him. "Five bucks for a lift?"

"I'm goin' that direction," the driver said. "Take you at least to North Graham. Hop on in back."

"Thank you," Tommy said, and he boosted the door into the bed of the truck while Brendan fished a limp five out of his wallet. The driver let them out on North Graham, two blocks from home, and waved as he pulled back out into traffic. From there it was easy.

Except that the Olds wasn't there in front of the house when they got there. "Shit," Tommy said, having completely given up on the concept of not swearing the rest of the week. "Pop's not home."

Brendan set his end of the door down on the grass, not warning Tommy first. "Hell. That's bad news."

Tommy set the door down gently. "Well. Well, let's… go clean this thing up and maybe we can hang it before he gets home."

And right then, the Olds came up the hill and jerked to a stop in front of the house. Tommy only had time to catch Brendan's gaze with his own once before Pop got out of the car, slamming the front door hard and glaring at them. "Where the hell you boys been? Scared your mother half to death, she didn't know where you went."

"I'm sorry, Pop," Tommy said right away, and Brendan echoed him.

"And there's a newspaper reporter in the living room right now, waitin' on you to get home, Tommy," Pop said. "You _kept her waiting_. So get your little butt in there and answer her questions."

"Yes sir."

"What the hell is this, anyway?" Pop gestured toward the door.

"It's… um…" Brendan tried to answer, while Tommy headed for the living room. "It's a door."

"I know it's a door, smartass! What the hell is it for?"

"Our room," Brendan said, and gave Tommy a panicky look, but Tommy didn't dare delay any longer.

He went into the living room and shook the hand of a woman reporter whose name he didn't catch, a nice-looking Asian lady younger than Mom. He apologized for being late, and she said it was no problem, it had been a last-minute assignment from her editor at the newspaper. Mom brought him some ice water, and he answered questions about wrestling and the tournament, about training and his dad, about his college and Olympics plans. About Theogenes, too, which everybody else in the flipping world seemed to find hilarious as hell. Like blue-collar Tommy Conlon had no business thinking about mythical Greek dudes who were possibly demigods. Like Tommy Conlon had no reason to even know what "demigod" meant. But this lady seemed interested, no hint of laughter as he explained about finding it in a book and then going to the library to find out more, back when he was maybe eight or so.

"That's very interesting. It'll be in the Post-Gazette tomorrow. And thanks for your time, Tommy."

By that time, Pop and Brendan were coming in the house, Pop muttering things like "cockamamie idea" and "probably got woodworm" and "goddamn stupid." Tommy looked over and caught Brendan's eye again, Brendan making one of those _oh well what can you do_ faces back. "Coulda got kidnapped," Pop muttered, "or run over." Then he turned back to the newspaper lady and shook her hand, turning on the charm for her and asking if she got what she needed from Tommy.

"Of course, of course. Very dedicated young man you've got there," she said. "Very nice to meet you, Tommy, and good luck to you." But as she went out the door, Tommy could see her assessing his face, and Brendan's. Right before she went down the steps, she stopped and fished in her purse. "Here's my card," she said, and reached back in to hand it to Tommy. "You ever need anything? You call me. Anything at all." She gave him a level look, way more serious than was warranted for a mere interview, and Tommy's stomach went cold. _Shit. Keep to the code._

_No, I didn't say anything suspicious. I didn't._

"What'd you _say_ to her?" Pop demanded.

"Nothin'. Nothin', I just answered her questions is all. Straight-up stuff. Facts." Tommy fought down panic, made his shoulders relax. _Nothing out of the ordinary, didn't do anything wrong, didn't say anything to make people start getting nosy. Blameless. Believe it and he will too._

"Gimme that," Pop said, and Tommy handed the business card over without even looking at it. Pop tore it in two and threw it in the trash on his way in the kitchen. From there he opened the fridge, leaving Mom and Tommy and Brendan all standing frozen in the living room, Tommy's heart beating like crazy. They heard the familiar sound of a beer can cracking open. "Mary Frances! When's dinner?"

"Half – half an hour, honey," Mom said, taking a deep breath. She patted Tommy on the arm and went into the kitchen, talking to Pop. "Here, let me do that. Want a cold glass for it? I keep that stein you like in the fridge so you can have a cold glass for your beer."

"Sorry," Tommy whispered to Brendan. "Didn't know about the interview thing."

"Me either, Brendan whispered back, but stiff, like his lips were kind of paralyzed. "Come on. Let's go put the door in the basement, and then we can do homework until it's time for supper."

Tommy nodded. But before he went out with Brendan he went over to the trashcan and pulled the pieces of the business card out. He couldn't keep them, he knew that – Pop might check – but maybe it would be good to just have the information. Just in case… in case she messed up the article or something. Yeah. He fitted the card pieces together long enough to read "Angela Chin" and a local phone number, then dropped them back into the trashcan. He kept reciting the number to himself until he could go up to his room and write it down.

By the time dinner was over, with Beef Stroganoff and a couple of Iron City lagers in him, Pop was more relaxed. He was relaxed enough to tease Tommy about the attention he might be getting from girls now, and Tommy could feel his ears going beet red. Brendan joined in, teasing him a little. "Heard Christine Keagy likes you."

"Where'd you – where'd you hear that?" Tommy stammered out, trying desperately to keep his dick from waking up at the mere mention of her name, and the remembered taste of bubblegum.

"From Christine Keagy," Brendan said, and laughed. "In American History class. Ooh, look, your ears are all red."

"Shut up, Brendan," Tommy said through his teeth. "This was really good, Mom, thank you."

"Happy to cook things you like," Mom said, and reached over to tousle his hair. "So tell me about this Christine girl, is she cute?"

"She's cute," Brendan said when it was clear Tommy was biting his tongue. "Not Tommy's type, I would have thought, but she's cute."

"Shut up, Brendan," Tommy repeated. "If you're done pickin' on me here, I'm gonna go do homework now."

"Yeah. Stop pickin' on the boy. Make the most of your days off, Tom," Pop said. "Do some schoolwork, get some rest. Mary Fran, that was a fine meal."

"Thank you, honey," Mom said, and leaned over to kiss Pop.

Ugh. Too creepy, especially since he'd kissed Christine Keagy today. Tommy escaped for the safety of his room, where he sat doing Earth Science and trying to ignore his insistent boner. _Calm. Down,_ he told it. _Just because I got kissed today don't mean anybody's gonna play with you. Knock it the hell off._

And it had mostly subsided by the time Brendan came upstairs and settled on his bed with Algebra II homework, except that Brendan had to go and ask him about kissing Christine Keagy, and during the telling, Tommy's boner came back.

"So. You like her?" Brendan asked, kicking back on his bed. "You see what I mean about kissing a girl?"

Tommy shook his head. "No-ooo. Not really. You mean about heaven?" Brendan nodded. "Nope. It was _great,_ don't get me wrong, but… no. It didn't feel like some big golden cloud or anything."

"Huh," Brendan said. "You sure got some wood over there, for it not to be heaven."

"Shut up. Like you don't get wood thinking about girls. So… how far have things gone with you and Tess Mahoney?" Tommy dared to ask. If Brendan was going to ask about Tommy's dick, Tommy could ask rude questions too.

"Kissing. That's it." Brendan was quiet a moment. "I… would love to do more. I kissed her neck the other night, and she sort of moaned and put her hand on my thigh. It was_ the._ Hottest. Thing. Ever. But I know that's sort of disrespectful. She's not that kind of girl. She's the kind of girl who holds your heart, not the kind that grabs your balls."

"Wow." Tommy thought about it a minute. At this point, he'd settle for a girl that would grab his balls. _But._ To feel like one girl might be someone who could hold your heart? It would be awesome. If you could trust it. He kept thinking about it, all during the time that he was finishing his algebra homework and brushing his teeth and getting into bed._ Huh. Brendan loves Tess Mahoney. But that's not going to change anything. It can't. Him and me, Mom and Pop. That ain't gonna change._


	3. Chapter 3: The Freshman Prodigy

_A/N: Wrestling weight classes have changed since Tommy was a freshman, but the ones I use here are authentic to Pennsylvania's high school wrestling program in 1995. I'd looooove reviews, darlings!_

**Freshman Prodigy Wins**

**By Angela Chin**

**Pittsburgh Post-Gazette**

**High school freshman wrestler Tommy Conlon pulled out one for the record books on Saturday, March 11, at the HersheyPark Arena in Hershey, PA, by defeating every other contender for the state championship in the AAA 135-pound weight class, without yielding a single point in the tournament. He's the first freshman to win a wrestling title in Pennsylvania since 1971, and the first Taylor Allderdice wrestler to win a state title since 1980. The fifteen-year-old, who has been wrestling since he was five, has not lost a match the entire season. In fact, he has not lost a wrestling match for the past ten years. He holds six consecutive Junior Olympics titles.**

**Tommy is trained by his father, Paddy Conlon, a Pittsburgh native and former Marine who boxed on a semi-professional level for several years. Tommy works out with the other Taylor Allderdice wrestlers on the mat, but his conditioning extends beyond theirs. He rises at 5 am daily to run five miles before school, and spends much of his after-school time weight training and boxing at Fitzy's Gym on Dunkirk Street, in addition to honing his skills at daily wrestling practice in season. He also maintains a B average at school, and hopes to wrestle first for Penn State and eventually for the US in the Olympics.**

**Coach Philip Moore described his top varsity wrestler as being the hardest-working kid on the mat. "Tommy is an exceptional athlete," Coach Moore said in an interview by telephone. "He has incredible instinctive talent, but what makes him such a phenom is his willingness to prepare and his drive. He does a lot of conditioning that would be too strenuous for most of my other wrestlers, and I am concerned that he may not be able to sustain that pace. The other thing about Tommy is that he's just a real joy to have around. He's self-motivated, but he is very engaged with the other wrestlers, encouraging them and often showing them tips. Very positive kid. He's going to go far."**

**Tommy's older brother Brendan Conlon, a junior and honor student, also wrestles for the TAHS Dragons, and placed third in the 140-pound weight class at the Western PA Regional AAA meet last month.**

**Trainer Paddy Conlon takes his younger son's conditioning exercises very seriously, often spending more than twenty hours a week working with him. He has not missed any of his son's matches since he began wrestling. According to Mr. Conlon, "No, Tommy doesn't train too hard. He trains to his ability. He needs the challenge. My boy here is a world-class athlete and he trains on a world-class level. If the other boys can't hack it, well, that's the reason he beats everybody he wrestles. Our goal is complete domination." The intensity of the relationship between father and sons is apparent, and Mr. Conlon told me that no one could possibly care more about Tommy's wrestling career than he does.**

**Unless it is Tommy Conlon himself. Tommy named as his inspiration classical Greek athlete Theogenes, who won more than 1400 wrestling bouts. Theogenes, described in some accounts as a demigod, may have been mythical, but for his modern adherent that doesn't seem to matter. The excellence Theogenes displayed does. As Tommy told me, "[Olympic champion wrestler] Dan Gable says, 'The first period is won by the best technician. The second period is won by the kid in the best shape. The third period is won by the kid with the biggest heart.' I want to be the best at all three: technique, conditioning, and will to win." Of his training schedule, he said, "You do what you have to do. I train hard because I want to be the best." He smiled, and added, "Watch out, Theogenes."**

* * *

Tuesday had been a good day at school again. He'd actually sat with Brendan and Tess and her cheerleader compatriots (including Christine Keagy) at lunch, because he couldn't bear the idea of not eating, even when the alternative was kissing Christine Keagy. But the very second he finished lunch, her hand was on his arm. "Let's go," she'd said, and sparkled at him, and again he'd gone with her down the hall to the underutilized area under the gym steps.

Just like Monday, they'd kissed until the 5th period bell rang. He'd been late to study hall again, but it had been worth it to hear her sigh and tell him that he was _really _good at it, and she liked kissing him. "You wanna go do somethin' Saturday night?" he'd asked her. "Movie or Putt-Putt or somethin'?" Usually he had some free time on Saturday night, because that was one of Pop's regular nights out at the VFW. And he had a little money saved up, too. He could swing it. Probably. Unless Pop had a bad day or something.

"Love to, Tommy Conlon," she'd said, and waved at him as she hustled up the stairs to Spanish class. "Call me. Tess has my number."

_Bubblegum. _It was all he could think about the rest of the school day.

On the bus, on the way home, Brendan teased him unmercifully. "You got lip gloss under your chin, man. And behind your ear." Which Tommy knew was bullshit, of course, Christine Keagy's lips had been nowhere near his ear, _Oh my God that would be soooo hot,_ but he wound up wiping at it anyway.

Oh well. Anything to make Brendan laugh.

They made plans to clean off the door and hang it before Pop got home from work, but the newspaper was open on the table, and Mom was in a super good mood so Tommy ate a brownie with her while she chattered on about a job she'd found in the classifieds, a tailoring job for a dry-cleaning service. "I could do that, you know, Tommy, I could _do_ it! Twenty hours a week, mostly mornings. That's what the lady said." She lit a cigarette and went into the kitchen to smoke it, opening the window to let the smell out. "I know dry-cleaning, too. I used to do that, you know, before you boys came along."

"Sounds okay," Tommy told her, but he and Brendan exchanged glances. Every time Mom brought up the get-a-job concept, Pop shot her down.

"I could still be here to make you breakfast and get you out the door, and be home before you get home from school," Mom went on, still working the chirpy tone that meant she was excited.

"You think you'd like it?" Brendan asked.

"I do. I just…" Mom exhaled another stream of smoke toward the window. "I just hafta find the right time to bring it up with your father. You know."

"I know," Brendan said. "Hey – Tommy, lemme read that article, okay?"

"Sure." Tommy passed the poster over to Brendan and watched Brendan's eyes move down the lines of print. Halfway down his forehead scrunched up, and by the end his face wore the same pinched sort of look it had had on Sunday. "What'sa matter wit' you?"

"Jesus, you'd think Pop only had one kid," Brendan muttered under his breath, but not quietly enough. Mom heard him.

"Brendan Patrick," she warned, leaning into the dining room and pointing a long finger at him. "Do not take the name of the Lord in vain."

"Sorry, Mom." Brendan practically flung the poster back at Tommy. "And of course you'd cut that out of the newspaper and keep it. Tommy the freshman prodigy. Tommy the _phenom_. I mean, it's almost like I don't even exist."

"There's somethin' in there about you," Tommy pointed out. "And I talked about you a lot with that reporter lady, you know. She asked me about my inspiration, and I said Theogenes –"

"Yeah, yeah," Brendan said, getting up from the table. "You and your stupid Greek dude."

" — and then I said you, because you help me all the time." By the end of the sentence, he was turned around in his chair, talking to his brother's back as Brendan walked away. "I don't know why it's not in there. I _said_ it."

"Flippin' _demigods_ are more interesting, I guess."

"You gonna blame _me _for what she left out?" Tommy asked, but Brendan didn't answer him.

"Pop's home," he said instead, coming back into the dining room.

"Oh," Mom said, and stubbed out her cigarette.

And then the door banged open, Pop coming in larger than life, as usual. "Where's my boy? You see the paper?"

Tommy caught the word "boy," singular, and winced. "We saw it, Pop. I put it on my poster."

"Good! Lemme read it." He came into the dining room. "Mary Fran! You been smokin' again. You got to cut that out, secondhand smoke's not good for the boys."

"Just one, Paddy," Mom said. "You want a beer?"

"Just one, honey," he echoed, and winked at her. "Then the boys and me are goin' down to Fitzy's, show off Tommy's trophy."

That was about the _last_ thing Tommy wanted to do, with Brendan in a snit. "Pop… don't you think maybe that's a little braggy? I don't have to take the trophy."

"Hell, yeah, you're takin' the trophy," Pop said. "The guys'll wanna see it. And your medal." He leaned over the table to scan the cutout. "Nice article. Your coach has some good things to say… _hmm_." Mom brought him a cold beer, and he sucked down a good third of it before bending over the article again. "He thinks I'm workin' you too hard, huh?"

Tommy shrugged. "I feel fine. I'm not worried."

"I know you're fine," Pop said. "Looks like _she_ thinks I'm workin' you too hard, too."

"She who?" Tommy was confused.

"That little Chinese lady. The reporter. Makes me sound like I push you into it for my own benefit."

"Oh, I don't think so," Mom said immediately, and Tommy shook his head.

"No, it's fine. You just challenge me."

"Hmm. Well. Lemme finish this, and then we'll head on to Fitzy's, all right?"

"I got a lotta homework, Pop," Brendan said. "Think I'll skip out and get it done, okay?"

"Oh no," Pop said. "You're comin' too. I need both my boys. No, you're right, Tommy, I guess the article's okay. Looks like I think you're man enough to handle the training."

Brendan looked at Tommy, and he could tell they were thinking the same thing:_ shit_. All afternoon with Pop at Fitzy's, with the guys at Fitzy's… the ones who remembered what Pop was like in the ring, how tough he was. And Fitzy always had beer in the fridge in his office. Nothing for it, they'd just have to go and hope Pop didn't turn everything to hell. Hunker down, back each other up.

They changed into basketball shorts and old t-shirts for Fitzy's, no point in wearing school clothes there. All the way there in the car, Brendan was quiet. He'd taken the front seat, and Tommy had not made his usual "Hey-how-come-_I_-never-get-to-sit-up-front" fuss.

Pop, though, Pop had his usual first-beer buzz going, and he was chatty. Stuff going on at the mill, the weather, how many people had congratulated him on Tommy's championship at the mill today… Tommy could see that the back of Brendan's neck had gone pink, and Brendan was working his own version of mad up there in the front passenger seat. That is, stubborn mad. Pop was not the only one who could stub up and insist on things when he was ticked.

When there was a break in the conversation, Tommy jumped in with an announcement of his latest English quiz grade, a solid B. He knew Brendan had taken a big Chem test late last week and he should have that grade back, and he also knew that it was likely to be an A. "How'd you do on that Chem thing, Bren?"

"Nobody cares, Tommy," Brendan said. There was that exhausted tone in his voice that he'd had a lot lately, the one that confused the hell out of Tommy. Like nothing would ever change and Brendan was sick of trying.

"No, seriously." Dammit, Pop and Brendan were not the only stubborn ones.

"I got an A," Brendan acknowledged.

"Good for you," Pop said. "If they start givin' chemistry scholarships to Penn State, you're in like Flynn." He laughed and chucked Brendan on the shoulder. "Come on, buddy, cheer up. It's a good day. We're proud of your brother."

Next thing, they were pulling up to the curb on Dunkirk St. and heading to the glass door that had "Fitzy's Gym" painted on it. It was a crappy little place, Tommy thought, dirty and smelling of sweat and leather and ancient rubber, but nevertheless a place he'd always loved, a place he'd always felt safe in. He took a deep breath and followed Brendan inside, letting Pop's old boxing buddies thump him on the back and admire the medal. He let them mess his hair up and tell him he was growing, let them praise Pop's training and his persistence. He watched them share out Michelobs from Fitzy's fridge and pop them open and toast his championship. He listened to them say, "Proud of you, son!" like they were family, and he smiled and tried not to enjoy it too much, because he could see Brendan's blue eyes going icier and icier every minute.

_It's not my fault, Bren._

Then balding, beer-bellied Fitzy, with his broken fighter's nose and his permanent grin, came over and put his arm around Tommy's shoulders and squeezed. "You got some good boys, Paddy. Good tough boys. And smart, too."

"Yeah, Brendan's real smart," Tommy said, fast.

Brendan cut his eyes over at Tommy, like,_ I see what you're doing over there_, and Tommy couldn't quite make out what was going on in Brendan's head. And then Pop put his own arm around Brendan's shoulders. "Yeah. Good boys. And this one didn't do too bad at Regionals, either. He's a good wrestler, real patient. Tommy's the aggressive one."

This was not strictly true. Pop just liked it when Tommy wrestled aggressive, but Tommy knew it wasn't always the best way to win a match. Sometimes you had to _be_ patient, let the other guy make a mistake. Actually, you know, Brendan taught him that.

"In fact," Pop was saying, "they're really somethin' to watch when they wrestle each other. How about it, Brendan? You and Tommy get over there – " he nodded at one of the practice mats, " – and show us whatcha can do." He finished his beer and said to Fitzy, "How 'bout another?"

"I don't think so, Pop," Tommy said as soon as he got done picking his jaw up off the floor. What in the world could Pop hope to gain from this? "Pop, I got homework. And so does Bren." Brendan started nodding, like he'd turned into a bobblehead doll of himself.

But Pop ignored him, laying it on thick for Fitzy, now coming back from his office with another batch of brown bottles. "Now, I trained 'em both, but I was able to capitalize on Tommy's willingness to take risks and make bold moves." _Ow. _True, Brendan was more conservative than Tommy, always had been, but still, Pop shouldn't have so obvious a favorite. "Go on, boys, get your headgear out. You know where your lockers are."

"I don't have wrestling shoes," Brendan said, sounding relieved at having a legitimate reason not to do this.

"Tommy's got two pairs in his locker," Pop told him. "Put the old ones in there myself when we got him that new pair before States." They wore the same size shoe. This was not helping. "Go on now, gear up. And strip down to your shorts – no shirts."

Tommy shot Brendan another panicky look. "Look, Pop, I have homework too. Thought we was gonna come down and say hey, and then go back home. And besides, I think I might have strained my ankle some yesterday, walkin' home with that door." His ankle was fine, but he really did not want to wrestle Brendan.

"Brendan's got about seven pounds on Tommy, but Tommy's got mean moves on his side," Pop said, not listening to Tommy. "He's a vicious little son of a bitch." Pop's voice was affectionate.

_He's really gonna make us do this._

If Brendan was willing to do their usual thing and just shove each other around, let the control change back and forth so that there was no clear winner, they could get out of it with very little mess and hurt feelings, but judging by his face, Brendan was definitely not willing to play footsie with the match this time. Brendan had turned his head and looked at Tommy, and Tommy could see by the blue flames in his brother's eyes that Brendan was going to take it seriously. _Well, shit_. He'd better take it seriously, too, because Brendan really was pretty good. Definitely better than some of the guys Tommy faced on Saturday. At this stage, what with all the praise Tommy was getting, Brendan probably wanted nothing less than Tommy humiliated in front of all Pop's buddies. But Tommy wasn't going to just roll over belly up, not even for his brother.

The mat wasn't regulation, and they didn't have a ref or an accurate timekeeper, but it didn't matter. Brendan was suddenly all taut muscles, nothing to grip, and he went right in for the takedown. Tommy wouldn't let him. Brendan tried to get Tommy down four times in the two minutes of the first period, but Tommy resisted him. Then time was up, and the coin toss gave Tommy the option to choose starting position. He picked offensive, because that's what Pop liked and that's what Brendan still struggled with. It was almost over before it started, with Brendan going hard for the reversal and not getting it, and Tommy flipping him into a half-nelson for a fall not even half a minute into the second period.

"Get off me," Brendan hissed the minute he knew it was over, and as soon as Tommy untangled himself, Brendan stood up and went straight for the lockers, kicking his (Tommy's) shoes off and generally being a poor sport.

"You get back here right now and shake hands, boy," Pop said to Brendan, in his warning voice.

Brendan stopped dead, because you just did not ignore Pop's direct orders. You did not. He turned around and came back to shake Tommy's hand, and then without a word he went back to the lockers to put his t-shirt on and sulk. It was up to Tommy to try to salvage things in public, so he talked to all the old guys, accepting smiles and chucks on the shoulder. Brendan went over to the hanging heavy bags in the corner and started punching them around some. No gloves, so Tommy knew it had to be killing his hands, but he also figured that any outlet for Brendan's fists that wasn't Tommy's face was a good one.

Fitzy got out his camera, and took some pictures of Tommy standing in front of the American flag hanging on the wall, with his medal and his trophy. "Gonna put that one up on the wall in the office," he said, and took the camera back up the stairs, coming down slow on his busted knees with a black-and-gold Fitzy's Gym t-shirt. "Here ya go, kid, tell everybody you train here. Get us some more business." He laughed and tossed the shirt to Tommy.

"Thank you," Tommy said, and draped the shirt around the back of his neck.

It was only Tommy's stomach growling loud enough to be heard over the beery joking that got Pop out of there. After some ribbing about how Paddy's kid had a dying walrus in his belly or something, Pop whistled for Brendan. "Come on, kiddo, home for dinner." Brendan didn't say anything, but he joined them and got right back into the passenger seat.

Pop, mellow from the beer and the praise, reached over and tousled Brendan's sweaty hair. "You get your snit all over with, Brendan?" In the back seat, Tommy closed his eyes briefly. _Great. Thanks, Pop. Now he'll be pissy all night and it'll be my fault._ "Come on, son, you could be just as good as your brother, if you wanted to be. If you worked harder at it."

There was a stony silence until Brendan spoke, and Tommy's blood went to ice. "What if I don't want to? What if I'd rather concentrate on my grades?"

"I already know you don't want to," Pop said, impatient. "Or you'd be doin' it already. Hard-headed son of a bitch." He shook his head. "Grades is all right, bein' smart is all right. But you could be real good at wrestling. Maybe, okay, maybe you're not as good as Tommy. Maybe you'd rather box, how 'bout that?"

Brendan shook his head too, and Tommy could hardly believe how much he was challenging Pop. Not in a mad voice, just matter of fact. "Maybe I just wanna be all-around good at a lotta stuff, 'stead of the best at one thing. You ever think about that, Pop? Seems to me like people who do that are happier with their lives."

"Oh yeah? Tell that to those guys in the Olympics."

"I'm not them, Pop. I'm not that focused on one thing, not like Tommy. _I'm not Tommy_."

Tommy, worriedly eyeing Pop's face in the mirror, was surprised at how not-mad Pop seemed to be. And then Pop spoke again, cold like he didn't know Brendan from Adam. "You know, I put you boys up against each other so you can make each other better. Iron sharpens iron. Challenge strengthens you. I'd think you'd _want_ to help your brother out."

"I don't wanna not help him." Brendan sighed. "Look, I'll… I'll work out with him on the mat. Even though he whups my butt every time and it can't really be helping that much. But I ain't doin' it in public anymore. Not outside the school gym, not for exhibition, not for your buddies to laugh at. Only to help him out."

"I don't wanna wrestle him anymore either, Pop," Tommy admitted. "I don't like it. I don't_ like_ makin' him look bad." If Pop understood how bad it made him feel when people ignored Brendan, maybe Pop would lay off. Maybe pigs would fly, too, but he had to try anyway.

He was looking at Pop's face in the rearview mirror, and completely missed Brendan's reaction until Brendan's fist hit him in the side of the head. "You little _pissant_," Brendan snarled, turning and leaning over the seat, slapping at Tommy's head.

"Shut up," Tommy shot back, and kicked at the seat, pushing Brendan's hand away from his head.

Pop stopped the car dead, right in the middle of the street, and Brendan nearly cracked his head on the doorframe. "Siddown," Pop growled. "Don't tear up my car. Put your seat belts on and quit actin' like a coupla scatterbrained monkeys."

"I hate you," Brendan muttered venomously, over his shoulder to Tommy, and Tommy couldn't help the way tears came into his eyes. They just popped up. _I was just trying to help. _He sniffed the tears back.

"Jesus, Mary an' Joseph, are you _crying?_" Pop said, like he couldn't believe it.

"No," Tommy said, by reflex. That was another thing you didn't do to Pop, either. You didn't ignore him, you didn't disrespect him, you didn't cry. He sniffed again and made it be true, that he wasn't crying. Brendan sniffed in the front seat.

"Lookit this, I got a bunch a pussies in my damn car. You two shape up and quit cryin' like little girls. Make me _sick_." He shook his head. "Christ. Just a little friendly competition."

The last five minutes in the car were totally silent. As soon as the car stopped, Brendan was out of it, rushing upstairs. Tommy went into the bathroom to wash his hands and help Mom get dinner ready, but everything was all set to go – table set, plates out, Mom taking the big pan of chicken and vegetables out of the oven. "Paddy, you want some ice tea?" she asked cheerfully. "You boys have fun down at Fitzy's?"

Pop didn't answer. He opened the fridge and pulled out a cold bottle of Iron City, cracking the cap on it and drinking it straight down. _That's his fourth in three hours_, Tommy thought._ But if he stays on beer and leaves the Jamesons alone, we're probably fine_. "Yeah, it was okay," he said to his mother. "The guys were pretty excited."

"Well, I bet. Come on now, this is all ready, we're ready to eat."

"Smells good," Pop acknowledged, and got another bottle out of the fridge. It did, it smelled fantastic – chicken pieces in a sort of stew, made in Mom's big roaster pan with tomatoes and celery and onion and potatoes. Green beans on the stove, and a loaf of the good bakery bread Mom had sliced up and toasted in the oven.

Tommy poured two glasses of milk for him and Brendan, and filled up his plate before Brendan showed up downstairs, with clean shirt and hair brushed. He wouldn't meet anybody's eyes, but he sat down and ate and complimented Mom. Tommy kept trying to catch his brother's attention, but Brendan ate with his face pointed at his plate, like his food was going to run away if he didn't watch it every second.

Pop had one more beer with dinner (five in four hours, by Tommy's count), but he showed no inclination to leave for the bar or the VFW after he ate. Instead he lounged at the table with the rest of the newspaper, only mildly complaining about the part of the paper missing where Tommy had cut it out. It was only some girls' soccer scores anyway, and Tommy knew Pop didn't care about that.

Brendan said something about his homework and scooted his chair back from the table, but Pop set the newspaper down and pointed a thick finger in his direction. "Another thing, I don't want you boys tryin' to put that door up in your room. I said I didn't _want _that door replaced, and now we're gonna hafta take it back to the dump. It was damn stupid, and both a' you coulda got hurt traipsin' all over town. _Unbelievable _stupid. Whose cockamamie idea _was_ it, anyway?"

Tommy bit his lip and looked up. "Mine, Pop. I'm sorry. I thought you wouldn't mind if we did all the work and you didn't hafta pay for it."

"Well, you thought wrong."

"For once something that's not _my_ fault," Brendan muttered, but he was wrong.

Pop smacked a hand on the table, and when Brendan finally looked up, his face pale, Pop said, "Oh no? Well, you shoulda stopped 'im. You shoulda told him it was a damn stupid idea. Thought you was s'posed to be the _smart one_." He nodded, firmly. "G'on now. Go do that homework you're so proud of, smartass. We know what's important to _you_."

Tommy felt himself going small in his chair, from shame and a stinging hurt he hadn't even known was possible. This was all his fault. And worse: if Pop was calling Brendan stupid, then he must think Tommy was the other side of "dumb as a brick."

"Yes sir," Brendan said, just one shade shy of insolence, and met Tommy's eyes coolly before he took his plate into the kitchen and went up the stairs to their room. _He really_ _does hate me_, Tommy thought with a sense of panic, almost. How could he get by without Brendan's being on his side? If Brendan had declared war on Tommy, there would be no refuge in the house. Mom loved him, but Mom loved all of them. She couldn't protect anybody. If he didn't have Bren, Tommy would be alone.

Without looking at Pop, Tommy got up and took all the other plates into the kitchen, and helped Mom clean up in there. They did the dishes, Tommy offering to wash for once, just for the opportunity to stand close to somebody who didn't think he was a waste of oxygen. "Honey," Mom whispered to him as they were finishing up, "what's wrong? Is it just Brendan upset, or are you two mad at each other?"

There was no way he could tell Mom what happened, not with Pop in the next room. "We had a fight," he whispered back. "And I wanna say sorry, but he won't pay attention to me. And Pop – " He couldn't even finish.

Mom sighed. "It'll work out. I know he's got his feelings hurt at the moment, but you'll work it out. You're brothers. It's that simple."

Tommy kissed Mom's face, on that soft spot near her eyebrow, and wiped his hands on the dishtowel. "I gotta do some homework now." She nodded, and he went upstairs, gingerly, hoping Brendan would be over his mad.

He wasn't. He was sitting on his bed reading some book, probably for English class, and he didn't look up when Tommy came in and just stood there waiting. "What you want?" Brendan said, still reading.

"I was just tryin' to help, you know," Tommy said, awkward. God, what was he supposed to say?

"Go away."

Tommy sighed and grabbed his backpack. "Brendan…"

"Are you done yet? 'Cause I don't even wanna look at you."

Tommy gave up and just took his backpack downstairs to do algebra. Pop had gotten another beer and parked himself in his chair, watching the outclassed Pistons try to score on the Magic. Sometime during the half, when Tommy had finished his math and gone on to studying for a quiz in Earth Science, and Mom had come in and sat down in her chair with a sweater she was trying to mend, Pop finally spoke. "Brendan still all sore-assed up there 'cause he lost this afternoon?"

Mom sighed. "Paddy… please. Your language."

"Mary Frances, don't you tell me how to talk to my son. _Well,_ Tommy?"

Tommy thought carefully before answering. "He's… mad. At me. Pop, you know… he _is_ really smart. I made him do what I wanted, he was just bein' nice to me."

"Oh?" Pop got out of his chair and walked over to the cabinet, stooping to pull the whiskey and a shot glass out. He poured himself a shot, and tossed it back. "Well, lemme tell ya somethin', Tom. 'Nice' is for pussies. 'Nice' might as well be 'dead.' Best he learns that now." He poured another shot and held it up to Tommy. "Best you learn that, too."

Tommy, feeling Mom's silent embarrassment over Pop's language, bit his lip. There were a lot of times that even without the liquor, Pop didn't make sense. He said contradictory things. If women were weaker, then why didn't men use their strength to treat women gently? If family was supposed to love each other, then why couldn't Pop be sweet with them? If Pop told him and Brendan to watch their language around women, then why did Pop use that word in front of Mom? It just didn't feel right. And Tommy might be stupid, but he just _thought_ different about those things than Pop seemed to, and he'd bet that he was right. Not Pop.

"He's my brother," Tommy said. "Maybe that's… maybe it's different for you, you didn't have one." It made sense. Pop's mother and his sister, May, had been killed in a car wreck before Pop even married Mom. Tommy wondered sometimes what Pop had been like as a boy, but there had never been anyone around for him to ask.

Pop, who had started to put the whiskey away, turned around fast and pointed a finger at Tommy. "I _had_ brothers. I had brothers in the Corps. 'Course, most of 'em are dead now." And he poured another shot before capping the bottle and slamming it down on the cabinet. "Dead now." _Oh shit. Oh shit. This is not good._

Mom had stopped sewing entirely. Tommy looked at her, and she was carefully taking the thimble off her finger, rolling up the mending to put it in the seat of the chair. "How about you go on up to bed now, Tommy?"

He wasn't done with his studying, but when Mom met his eyes, he understood. She would take over now, try to distract Pop. "Lemme go brush my teeth, okay?" She nodded, and he got up on shaky legs to go do that. When he came out of the bathroom, Pop had his poster in his hands, rereading that article.

"I don't like this," Pop said, slurring his words. "That little Chinky bitch, she wrote about me like I'm a thug, standin' over you wit' a belt. Like I'm a slave driver, workin' you too hard. That Oriental cunt… I'll show her what hard is…"

"Go to bed, Tommy," Mom said firmly, coming between him and Pop and giving him a little nudge between the shoulder blades. "Go on upstairs. I'll – just you go to bed now, okay? You and your brother."

He nodded, feeling numb, and snagged the strap of his backpack on the way up the stairs. Brendan had put the book down and was going over stuff in his notebook. He did not glance up when Tommy came in. Mom's quiet voice went on talking to Pop downstairs, saying soothing things Tommy couldn't quite make out, but he was nervous all the same. He'd seen Pop way drunker, but still. What with him and Bren fighting, and the newspaper article, and the mention of dead Marines... no way was that going to be good.

Tommy dumped his backpack on the floor and changed into sleep clothes. He hadn't had a shower, so he'd just have to get up early. He sighed.

Brendan finally looked up, just for a second. "What?"

"Pop."

"It's always Pop," Brendan said bitterly. "Jackass. Prick. Sot."

"Mom would hate you talkin' like that," Tommy reminded him. He pulled the science notes out again, and they studied in silence for about twenty minutes. After that, the noises from the downstairs bedroom were distracting.

"_Jesus_," Brendan said, looking at the door.

"At least he ain't hittin' her." They weren't noises of pain.

Tommy wondered for the millionth time what on earth could have appealed to his gentle-handed mother about Pop. Sure, he'd been a good-looking young man, if you went by the pictures Fitzy had up at the gym, of young Paddy Conlon in satin boxing shorts. Soft blond hair, strong jaw, freckles. Arms thick with muscle. But _so angry_.

"I'm not living like this," Brendan said, and actually pitched his notebook across the room. "Fuck that, I ain't doin' it. When I have my own house? There won't be any of this shit."

"Brendan."

"Shut up. I'm not. I hate him." Brendan got up and turned out the light without even asking if Tommy was ready to go to bed. His voice sounded thick. "I hate him. And you know the worst thing about it?" He peeled off his clothes down to underwear and got into bed; Tommy could hear the covers rustling.

"What?" Tommy dropped his notebook on the floor and reset his alarm clock for earlier.

"If he was horrible all the time, she'd go ahead and leave. It's 'cause he's sweet to her sometimes, she never knows when. She's addicted to it, or something. And sometimes…" Brendan tailed off, and now Tommy could tell he was really crying. "Sometimes I wonder…" He sniffled. "If _you _weren't around, Mr. Fucking Perfect…"

"I'm not. You heard him, he practically called me stupid earlier," Tommy said, and then he was crying too.

"A lotta guys," Brendan said, and choked. "A lotta guys would be proud to have a son like me. But not him."

Tommy couldn't stand it anymore. He got out of bed and slipped across the room, nudging Brendan to make room for him. Brendan scooted over, his body still turned away, still crying. "Don't think I'm not still mad at you. You coulda let me have that one today."

This was new. It had always been Brendan coming over to Tommy's side, to comfort him. To keep him safe. But Tommy just couldn't stand the distance any more, couldn't wait for Brendan to get over it. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Brendan." He put his nose in Brendan's neck and his arm over Brendan's shoulder. "Don't be mad at me. I did it wrong, I'm sorry."

Brendan sighed, but his back relaxed a little.

"I'm sorry, Bren. I love you." He whispered the last part, feeling sad. Brendan sighed again, his tears finally stopping.

"I love you too, asshole."

"Dickwad."

They laughed, very quietly, and Brendan's hand patted his arm. "I'm sorry too. We just… we just gotta stick together."

"Yeah." Tommy put his head back down on the pillow against Brendan's. "You're my brother. You ain't gettin' rid of me any time soon." He felt very warm, after the tears, and it was not long before he fell very suddenly into sleep.

**A/N: Oh my Lord, I made myself cry with this one. We already know what's going to happen, and it **_**still**_** makes me cry. My deep thanks to the lovely Wynter S. Komen and Nik216 – thanks for trampoline duty, dear ones.**


	4. Chapter 4: Making Plans

**Fight or Flight**

**A/N: One of the slurs flung at returning Vietnam War veterans was the epithet "baby killer." This made reference to the My Lai massacre in 1968, in which between 300 and 500 unarmed Vietnamese civilians, including women, children, and infants, were killed by US Army soldiers. **

Wednesday morning was the last day that Tommy could count on sleeping in before going back to the usual grind, up at 5am to run with Pop in the Olds behind him, pacing him and making sure he was safe on the streets. At some point last night Brendan had rolled over and Tommy had fallen out of his brother's bed, right to the floor. Good thing he was used to taking falls – his reflexes had kicked in, and he'd landed okay. Brendan, still asleep after all the stress, had merely made a _hmmm_ noise, not noticing that Tommy was no longer curled up next to him.

It was weird sleeping on Brendan's side of the room anyway. He'd had no trouble parking himself in his own bed and going right back to sleep, only waking up when his alarm went off. He stretched and turned off the alarm, grabbing clean boxers out of his underwear drawer and heading downstairs to the bathroom, leaving the door unlocked so Pop could come in and brush his teeth before work.

Another relatively normal day: Pop gone at 6:30, Mom making fresh eggs by 6:50, Tommy and Brendan ready for the bus at 7:25. Classes at school normal. Lunch normal, if you could count half the lunch period spent with his tongue in Christine Keagy's mouth. Tommy thought he could get used to that – pretty sure, anyway. He had had to explain to Christine Keagy that he couldn't call her yesterday, his dad took up all his time. She was surprisingly okay with it; Tommy had the feeling that she expected boys to call when they said they would, and if they didn't, that was more proof of their social desirability. So he came out ahead on that, too.

He got another tardy to study hall. He would really have to watch it, but it was _so_ tough dragging himself away from the bubblegum taste of Christine Keagy's lips. (No wonder Brendan was kissing Tess Mahoney every chance he got.)

Which did sort of bring up the question… Did girls get turned on by, like, just being girls and having girl bodies? Like, _'oh hey, here I am in the shower, I have boobs and they're so hot,_' or – not? Maybe he would never know, not being a girl.

_Thomas Ryan Conlon, you are a pervert_. The voice in his head sounded a lot like Father McMahon. He shook his head and got onto the bus for home, to go and help Mom do a few things since he and Brendan were apparently not going to be able to get that door hung after all.

Brendan was late getting home; he'd had an Academic Competition Team practice after school and gotten a ride home from one of his buddies. And Pop was late getting home, too; he'd gone by the VFW after work and had a few with his buddies. Some battle anniversary or other, Tommy guessed, because there was a red-eyed sadness clinging to Pop's face when he walked through the front door, the smell of whiskey on his breath when he greeted Tommy.

_At least he's home. At least he came home to have dinner with us, instead of drinking it_. Tommy reminded himself to take the good stuff where he could get it. This was going to be an outstanding dinner, too. He'd helped Mom with some of it, not that he could do much in the kitchen, but it was kind of fun to watch her do stuff. And Mom had really outdone herself with it, too: porterhouse steaks, breaded fried shrimp, twice-stuffed baked potatoes, steamed broccoli and carrots, salad, and both fresh rolls and baklava from the Greek bakery on Murray Avenue. That had been a real undertaking for Mom, making a special trip to the bakery on the bus. She didn't have a car, and usually their neighbor Mrs. Leahy took her to the market on Monday mornings.

And tomorrow, back to the usual training grind. Tommy felt like he'd had a good break, except for the food. He always got _enough_ to eat on his training diet, but it was often sort of boring. And no desserts. Other than that, he was ready to get up and go run again in the morning. Not that he liked running all that much, but at least it was stress-free and kept him focused on his goal.

Junior Olympics in July. High school wrestling practices starting in October, tournaments beginning in late November. States again next March. Three more rounds of it until he went off to college in '98. And the Summer Olympics in 2000 – in Sydney, Australia. Wouldn't that be something? _Australia_. The _Olympics_. He'd get there.

But getting there started with, yes, running at 5am every day.

Mom came out of the kitchen long enough to give Pop a kiss and tell him that supper would be ready as soon as the steaks were done. "Brendan?" she called at the foot of the stairs. "Hey, supper in a few minutes, honey. Come on down."

"Steaks?" Pop asked suspiciously, hanging his jacket on the rack in the hall. "I smell 'em cookin'. What's the occasion, what's goin' on?"

And for the first time since last week, Mom's face wore a wary, guilty look. "Tom – Tommy," she said, stumbling over the word, "Tommy goes back on his training diet tomorrow. I just wanted something nice for him tonight."

Pop stood completely still and looked at her, and all of a sudden she turned and ducked back into the kitchen, exactly like the rabbits Tommy sometimes saw ducking under the bushes when he ran anywhere near Allegheny Cemetery or Squirrel Hill Park in spring and summer. "Can't let 'em burn!" she called over her shoulder, but he thought it might be something else, too. Pop was giving off a danger vibe.

Tommy used to like to watch nature shows on TV, when he was a little kid: lions. Tigers. Polar bears. Cheetahs. Wolves. _Sharks,_ for Chrissake. But not anymore.

And then Brendan came down the stairs, his feet making a jazzy sort of rhythm on them, and he was all lit up with grin, completely oblivious to the tension in the room. Tommy took a deep breath and walked with him to the bathroom to wash hands. "Hey," he said, under cover of the water running. "You look… I dunno… you have a birthday sort of look. Things good?"

"Things are _so_ good," Brendan said, putting his head close to Tommy's. "She loves me too! I mean – she said it, you know? We said it to each other. Today." He pulled his head back to see Tommy's reaction, and then he realized that Tommy was not so happy. "What, _seriously_, do you not like her or something? What's wrong with you?"

"No..." Tommy turned off the water. "No, it's – she's fine. She's nice, she likes you, fine."

"But?" Brendan dried his hands and then handed Tommy the towel. "But _what?_"

Tommy dried his hands too, trying to think how to say it. "Don't you think you're a little young for 'true love'?" Tommy hung the towel back up.

"Said the guy who spent lunch period with histongue down Christine Keagy's throat," Brendan said, sounding annoyed. He was speaking very quietly, though, so no one else would hear.

"That's just – " Tommy shook his head, trying to explain the difference. "It's just kissing. It's not – I'm not gonna tell her our secrets or anything. She's not – look, I just don't think you should count on somebody who's not family."

"And how exactly would there be more family if neither one of us ever found a girl outside the family, Tommy?" Brendan asked in his _isn't-it-obvious-you-doofus_ tone of voice, the one that made Tommy feel like he should be watching "Sesame Street" on TV like a baby. Tommy didn't answer, just shook his head again. And then Mom called that the steaks were ready, and they went out of the bathroom into the dining room for dinner.

It was an excellent meal. Simple stuff, mostly, but everything cooked just right so that it tasted good together. And everybody ate really well. Even Pop threw out a compliment a couple of times, but there was still that danger vibe coming off him. Or was it the smell of whiskey? Tommy couldn't tell. He found himself thinking of grizzly bears during dinner, though. Pop was spoiling for it. Just waiting for somebody to say something half a degree off. _God,_ Tommy thought, _will it never end? I thought we'd have a good run of Pop being relaxed, once States was over. _But no.

"This is _fancy_," Pop said, his big hands still fiddling with knife and fork. Tommy took a deep breath. _Here we go_. "Where'd you buy those steaks, Mary Fran? Thought we didn't have the budget for that kinda thing."

"Just at the market," Mom said, and it didn't help that her voice went a little shaky. "They were on sale. You know I never buy meat that isn't on sale, Paddy."

"How much?" Mom hesitated in answering, and Pop pressed for more. "For the whole meal, how much? And how much do you normally spend on dinner, woman?"

Tommy looked across the table at Brendan, and Brendan was looking back at him with the same sort of _Oh shit here we go_ look Tommy could feel on his own face. It was mostly because he didn't know what to say to support Mom. What was best? He didn't know. But really, it didn't matter. When Pop was in a mood like this, you could give him a Nobel-Prize-worthy scientific answer, or tell him your honest opinion, or you could recite the goddamn phone book for all the attention he paid to you. It was all about _him,_ about his getting what he wanted. And what Pop wanted right now was to pick a fight with Mom, so he could have an excuse.

Mom tried the rational approach, mentioning a number which didn't sound all that unreasonable to Tommy. "If we went out to eat it would cost us twice that. Three times that maybe," she pointed out. "And it's only a few dollars more than a typical dinner."

"We don't eat out. We're supposed to be savin' money," Pop said coldly. "College tuition comin' up."

"I was thinkin' about that the other day," Mom said, and took a deep breath.

_No, Mom,_ Tommy thought. _Not now. Don't say it now. _

"I was lookin' through the classifieds, you know, and I saw an opening for a tailoring job at the dry-cleaners'. Part-time, eight bucks an hour. I could be workin' a little bit and savin' some for the boys' college." Her voice was tentative, but at the same time Tommy could hear the little bit of excitement in it too. Tommy couldn't blame her – that was good pay, a lot more than minimum wage. Perfect for Mom.

Before Pop could explode, Brendan jumped in. "Yeah, I was in the guidance office today too," he said, "and I was thinkin' I could just go to CCAC here in the 'Burgh for the first two years. Stay at home, maybe work a little to pay the tuition for the associate's degree. You can transfer to a state school pretty easy now from community college and it's a lot cheaper." He gestured toward Tommy. "I mean, we know the wrestling god over there will get a full ride to Penn State if he can keep his grades up – "

"He'd better," Pop interrupted.

" – but I can help make things easier on the money front, you know. Scholarships here and there. I'm already lookin' into 'em," Brendan said.

Pop sighed, heavy, and stacked his utensils on the plate. "Didn't need this shit when I was comin' up. Good jobs at the mill with benefits, for young men with strong backs."

"That's true, honey," Mom said. "Used to not need it to get a decent job like yours. But things are changin', Paddy, you know that. You _need_ a college degree these days. That's why I was thinkin' I could take a part-time jo—"

"I coulda stayed in the Corps, you know," Pop said darkly. "Shoulda made use of the GI Bill myself, I coulda gone to college. But I had a mother and a sister to provide for. So it was the mill for me."

"And you work real hard," Mom said, encouragingly. "We appreciate it. So I was thinkin' that I could help out with the tuition so it wouldn't be all on you. These boys are smart, they should go to college."

"Yeah, they got my brains," Pop said. "Well, Brendan did." He stood up from the table and pointed a finger at Mom. "Meanwhile, _I _make the money and _you_ spend it. I don't make enough money for you, huh?"

"There's this part-time job I was telling you about," Mom tried again. "On Miller Street, it's not far. I could set my own hours. I could be here in the morning to get everybody started on their day and then back home before the boys are done with school. You'd never even know I was gone, Paddy. It wouldn't disrupt anything at all. I don't even need a car, I could just walk to work, and we could set aside my little paycheck for tuition since we live just fine on yours."

"Never know you were steppin' out, huh?" Pop said. "That's what you want, huh?" He took a step toward Mom, and Tommy made himself small in his chair.

"I want to get a job and help bring in some income," Mom said, and her voice did not shake. "These are our sons, and college is an extra family expense. I should help out too."

Pop took a deep breath and said nothing for a moment, and Tommy started to breathe again. Maybe he'd think about it. Then Pop went out of the dining room and to the cabinet in the living room, and Tommy's heart sank. Sure enough, there was the unmistakable sound of liquid pouring into a tumbler. _Oh God no._ But he didn't come back into the dining room right away to finish arguing with Mom, and the three of them sat at the table and stared at their plates. Mom's hands were trembling and she couldn't finish cutting her steak. Tommy, noticing, reached over and touched her hand. "Want me to do it?" he asked softly, and she nodded. Then shook her head.

"I probably can't finish it now anyway, honey. I think I'm full. I'll just put it in the fridge for later," she said. "But thank you, sweetheart." She got up and took her plate into the kitchen, and Tommy could hear her putting food into the refrigerator. The clatter of dishes going into the sink almost covered up the liquid gurgle of whiskey into a glass in the living room, almost did. Not quite.

Tommy looked up at Brendan, to find his older brother's eyes full of pity on him. "He didn't mean it," Brendan said quietly. "Don't take it personal."

_They got my brains. Well, Brendan did._ Pop's voice echoing in his head. Nothing new, really. Tommy had always known what Pop thought. And he wasn't far wrong, if Tommy was honest with himself. "He's right, though. You hardly even have to study to get A's. I work my _ass_ off for those B's."

"You would probably be makin' A's if you had enough time to study," Brendan said. "If you weren't off playin' Junior Olympics Dude all the time."

Maybe. "I'd still be workin' my ass off for 'em, even if I did have time to study."

"They don't grade you on effort. Only results. And you know Pop's saying, 'Hard work beats talent every time, when talent don't work hard.' You got both, Tommy." Brendan reached across the table and chucked Tommy on the shoulder. "You do work hard, I give you that. It ain't like you didn't earn what you got."

"Let's go help Mom," Tommy said. Brendan nodded. But before they could get up, Pop was back through the dining room into the kitchen, stalking around like a bear – all shoulders and claws and teeth.

All scratchy growl. "No wife a' mine is gettin' a job. Think I don't provide enough?"

"Every little bit helps," Mom said softly. "When we're talkin' college."

"You _whore._ Who is he? Who you fuckin' on the side, woman?" There was a startled yelp from Mom, and the clatter of a dish. "Who is he, that you want an excuse to be outta the house? _This_ ain't enough for you?"

"Paddy," Mom was saying, calmly. "Paddy, you know there's nobody. You know you're my man."

"Thought you got enough of it last night, but I guess not." Another yelp, and a tearing sound, a ping sound like a button popping off. _That's her favorite blouse, _Tommy thought. It was a soft peachy-pink thing that buttoned down the front and made her look young.

"Is it not enough dick, or not enough money?" Pop roared. "Which is it, you whore? Or is it both? You wanna put it out on the street and get paid for it, is that what you want?"

"Paddy, the boys," Mom said, but her voice shook. "I just want to help pay for their college. That's all. _That's all_."

Long habit of staying out of Pop's way, reinforced by Mom's _making _them stay out of the way, plus their own fear, kept them stiff in the dining room. But Brendan, his mouth pressed into a thin line, stood up and picked up his plate. "This stops now," he said. Tommy, nearly sick with apprehension, stood too and turned to watch his brother go into the kitchen.

"Liar," Pop said, loud. "Not enough for you." There was the sickening_ crack_ of a hand against flesh, and a whimper. Tommy shuddered. He wasn't sure which saint to petition in this, so he sent up a terrified plea to St. Thomas the Apostle, the first to come to mind, to protect Bren and Mom, please. _Please_. "Get outta the way, boy!" Pop snarled. "I said move!"

"No," Brendan said. His voice was higher pitched than usual but firm.

_Oh God. Oh please. Blessed Virgin, Saint Thomas, please Jesus please_. Tommy took three steps on trembling knees and stood in the doorway to see Pop shouldering Brendan up against the stove. He caught Mom's eye and pointed to the phone – _Do you want me to call 911?_ She bit her lip, one hand to her scarlet cheek, and shook her head. Held up one finger, _wait_.

"You're twice as big as she is," Brendan said, very low.

Pop leaned over, pressing Brendan backwards, roaring, "You little shithead, I oughta fuckin' end you!"

_Oh Jesus, please_. Tommy put a hand on the phone receiver. Mom shook her head again, watching Pop.

Pop eased back when Brendan didn't move. Then he stepped around Brendan, and went out into the hall through the kitchen door. They heard the jangle of keys and the front door opening and slamming closed. Two minutes later, the Olds roared to life, and Brendan took a deep shuddery breath in. Mom sat right down on the kitchen floor, and Tommy practically leaped across the room to Brendan, pulling him upright and into his arms. "You scared me," he whispered.

"He scared _me_," Brendan whispered back, and then he sat down on the floor with Mom and just held on to her for a minute.

Tommy got an ice pack out of the freezer – there were always several, because of wrestling. After matches he always throbbed all over with little pains he never noticed during – sore muscles and mat burns, usually. He wrapped the ice pack in a clean dishtowel from the drawer and pressed it gently to Mom's face. "That better?" She nodded, tears leaking from her eyes.

"Lean on me if you want," Brendan said. Mom put her head on his shoulder and sobbed. Her blouse gapped open, revealing her white cotton bra. Tommy looked away, but he sat down on the floor too and put his arms around both of them. "God, Mom, why? Why – how can you _stay_ for this?"

Mom didn't answer for a long time. Then when Tommy had given up the idea that she would answer at all, she said something, very softly. "He's my husband. He's your father. I love him. And I took a vow."

"He shouldn't treat you like this!" Brendan insisted. "You didn't do anything wrong!"

"It's not about me," she said.

"Yes, it is. You deserve to be treated like a human being."

They just sat for a little while, and then when Mom stopped crying she raised her head and cleared her throat. "Well," she said. "This isn't going to get the dishes done. Or your homework done, either."

"I'll do it," Tommy said, quickly. "You go rest. Brendan and me, we'll do it." Brendan nodded.

"We'll all do it," Mom said, and swiped her hand across her eyes. "Done faster that way."

It wasn't fast. Mom's hands were shaky and her eye on the side of the face that Pop smacked kept watering, and Brendan kept stopping in the middle of something to stare off into space, coming back to himself with a jerk when Tommy would nudge him with an elbow. But they got it done, the kitchen and dining room all spotless, and then Brendan went upstairs with his homework. Mom went to sit in her chair, and Tommy got his backpack and sat on the floor near the lamp, doing his own work close by so he could change her ice pack for her.

By ten-thirty, Tommy was yawning so hard his jaw would make cracking noises. "Go to bed, honey," Mom said, and that's when he noticed how carefully she was speaking, as if she'd bitten her mouth. She'd probably cut the inside of her cheek when Pop slapped her.

"I should stay up, just in case," he muttered.

"No, Tommy. Get your shower and go on to bed," Mom said, and stroked his head. "Such a good boy, my boys are so sweet. I love you, honey."

"Love you too," he said, and went upstairs to grab some clean boxers and set out some workout clothes for tomorrow morning.

Brendan was sitting on his bed staring out into space again.

"What is up with you?" Tommy whispered at him. "Are you even here?"

Brendan blinked, and his face hardened. Tommy got a sudden flash of the way his brother's face might look when he got older: his eyes narrow and deadly above those high cheekbones, his mouth very determined instead of the soft way it usually looked. "I'm making plans," he said. "Contingency plans. In case he gets worse."

"Maybe he'll get better," Tommy said, aware that this was merely his wish and not a serious possibility.

"And maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt," Brendan said, quoting some Saturday Night Live guy.

"Fine," Tommy said, and went downstairs for his shower. They didn't talk much again. Brendan grabbed his own shower and Tommy dozed off waiting for Bren to come back. It was past midnight when the sound of voices downstairs woke Tommy.

"No," Pop was saying. "No. No. They're all gonna die if I don't get there. No. Lemme go. Lemme go!"

Tommy was up in a flash, shaking Brendan's shoulder. "Come on. Come on!" He recognized the sound of Pop's voice, how it meant that he was in tears and close to passing out. Mom would need some help getting him into bed.

He went down the stairs as fast as he could while being quiet, and saw his mother, in her nightgown, trying to deal with Pop, who was weaving about in his path from door to bathroom. "Stop, I gotta piss," Pop said. "Let go a' me, bitch."

"Here, lemme take ya, Pop," Tommy said, taking Pop's arm. "Come on. This way. This way, that's it." Pop leaned on him for balance, and Tommy steadied him from falling over in the bathroom. He took Pop's belt and dropped it on the floor. "Come on now. You wanna brush your teeth?"

"Goddamn hippie," Pop said. "Call me a baby killer, you hippie?"

"No, Pop. It's Tommy."

"Tommy?" Pop patted his head. That was it, there would be no tooth-brushing tonight. Tommy opened the bathroom door and let Brendan and Mom help him guide Pop down to the bedroom. He and Bren held Pop up while Mom tugged his jacket off, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off his shoulders. Mom unfastened his pants and pulled those down too. The smell of him under the booze sweat suddenly got stronger, a smell that stirred things inside Tommy's body that he really did not want to examine at the moment. It was both familiar and strange, and it was all bound up with a feminine perfumey smell that was not Mom's perfume. It wasn't the perfume, but it _went with_ the perfume, and it made him think of Saturday mornings spent in Mom and Pop's bed, between them, when he was too young to have started school. There was something else to it, though, something that made Tommy's entire body shudder with a kind of – excitement, maybe.

Mom sniffed too, smelling that smell on Pop's body, and tears began to drop down her cheeks. They got Pop's shoes off and the pants off his ankles, and got him settled in the bed, and Mom put a plastic bucket on the floor near Pop's head. "Thank you, boys," she said, and wiped her face. "Go on to bed now, okay?"

"You gonna be all right?" Brendan asked. She nodded and made a shooing motion. Pop began to snore. Brendan slung an arm around Tommy and pulled him along, turning off lights on their way back upstairs.

Tommy lay in his bed, his heart beating too fast. He kept wondering whether to ask Brendan whether he knew that smell or not, but then he realized he might know what it was. Before he could ask, Brendan started talking, his voice bitter and amazed in the dark.

"Sometimes I don't know which one of them is crazier – him for comin' home drunk as a skunk from some other woman's bed, or her for lettin' him."

Tommy didn't know what to say to that. So he didn't say anything, but he told himself he would never do that. Never would he cheat on his wife, never.

Never.


	5. Chapter 5: The Trophy

**A/N: It just ain't getting any better. In fact, it's going to get still worse. But you knew that already, right? (Part of this is for Wynter S Komen – actually, two parts! She'll know when she gets there. Mwah.)**

Thursday morning Tommy awakened to Pop's heavy tread on the stairs, his knock at the doorframe. "Get up, Tom. Get up. Time to go run, kiddo."

Brendan's sleepy, incredulous, "The _hell?_" from the other side of the room did as much as the lamp to rouse Tommy out of the not-enough-sleep dream stupor he'd fallen into.

"Mind your mouth, boy," Pop said to Brendan, but clearly Pop was hung over enough to not slap Brendan's jaw right through his skull, and it was just talk.

"Sorry, Pop, I was sort of asleep." Brendan turned over, toward the wall.

Tommy dragged himself out of bed. Usually he didn't have that much trouble waking up to run, but apparently both the late night and the days off from training conspired to make this feel like a cruel trick. "I'm up, I'm up." He pulled on his running gear and grabbed his running shoes, not his usual school shoes; he turned out the lamp and headed downstairs for a protein bar and some water.

He ate the protein bar while he stretched a little, just loosening up. Pop leaned against the counter drinking black coffee. He looked pretty bad, face white and creased up like paper. "You sure you wanna go with me?" Tommy asked, tentatively. "You could go back to bed, I can run on my own."

"It's dark out," Pop told him, as if Tommy had no idea. "If you're runnin' in the dark, I'm followin' you. Why would I go back to bed?"

Tommy blinked at him. "Well, 'cause… you were a little under the weather last night."

"Was I." Pop opened the fridge and found a block of cheese in the drawer. He cut off a piece and chomped right into it.

"Yeah. And you look a little under the weather this mornin', too." He bit his lip at his own daring. He shouldn't have said it.

But Pop just said, "Let's go. How about you aim for eight-minute miles once you're warm."

Tommy finished his water and slipped on his light jacket with the reflective stripes on the sleeves. They headed out, and it was _awful,_ that first mile. His feet felt like lead. His lungs hurt. The second mile was worse, and Tommy started rethinking the whole "let's take time off from training" idea for the future. By the third, though, he got into a groove and the run got easier. Not _easy,_ but easier. He couldn't run anywhere near as fast as the serious cross-country runners did, but he could get through five miles in forty-five minutes, no prob.

By the time he slowed for a cooldown, he was noticing a little tenderness in his left calf, maybe a slightly-pulled muscle. Nothing big, but kind of painful. Pop pulled up next to him and asked, "Hey – you havin' trouble with your leg? Your stride looks funny." Tommy admitted the soreness. "All right then," Pop said. "Take it easy on the way back, stretch good when you're done, and then I'll see if I can work it out for ya."

When they got back to the house, with the sun just coming up, the leg was stiff. Pop sent Tommy in to have a quick shower, and then once he had his boxers and clean shirt on, he lay down on the couch so Pop could massage the knot in Tommy's calf. There was something surreal about it, Pop's big hands firm but gentle on his painful leg, when last night he'd been so frightening. _He slapped Mom's face with that hand last night._ It went around and around in his head, Pop last night and Pop now, monster bear paws that hurt and warm competent hands that worked the soreness out. Tommy couldn't really make sense of it, so finally he stopped thinking about it at all and just let himself lie there, enjoying it. And feeling guilty.

"No more training breaks for me," he told his father. "I think it messed me up. So, fine, you were right. I'll remember. Maybe a day off here and there, but no five days in a row."

"Sounds like a plan," Pop said. Pop could be gracious when he got his way.

They ate scrambled eggs and fruit and whole-wheat toast that Mom cooked, and Pop got ready for work. "We'll go on down to Fitzy's after school today, Tom. Do a little working out, some free weights, maybe we'll put on gloves and work the hangin' bag some."

"Sure," Tommy said, and finished his milk.

Pop, on his way to the door, stopped and put his hand under Mom's chin. "Mary Frances," he said softly. "Honey. No more talkin' about a job, okay? We don't need you bringing money in, you don't have to do that. Don't push me on it, all right?" He leaned over and kissed Mom's face, slightly swollen from the impact of his own big hand. "You rest today if you'd like, don't worry about a thing. Just do your usual chores around the house, hmm? I'll see you this afternoon."

Tommy would have liked to scream at this, Pop talking _such fucking bullshit_. But he didn't. Instead, he gave his mother a long hug and went to get ready for school.

School was a mixed bag of good and bad. They started a new unit in World Geography today (neutral), the PE classes started discussing baseball in preparation for going outside and hitting a few (good), and Tommy decided once and for all that he hated polynomial equations (very very bad). Lunch was meatloaf and mashed potatoes and green beans (neutral), and Brendan spent most of it staring at Tess Mahoney like she was a winning lottery ticket, a cocker spaniel puppy, and a chocolate ice cream cone all rolled up into one person (ugh).

What really started getting on Tommy's nerves, though, was Tess Mahoney staring at Brendan in exactly the same way (double ugh). He got so sick of it that he actually got up to dump his tray before checking whether Christine Keagy was finished eating. She wasn't, but when Tommy stood up in a snit and started walking away, glaring at Brendan over his shoulder, she got up and followed him, just like he'd been following her the previous three days. She caught up as he was stalking out of the cafeteria, just as it dawned on him that he was being rude. "Sorry," he told her. "I'm just – gah, they make me sick. Cinderella and frickin' Prince Charming. You know?"

"I think it's sweet," Christine Keagy said, and for once she wasn't being flirty. "Really. Your brother is a very nice guy. Not my type, but all the same pretty awesome. And I love Tess. We've been friends forever, and she's not just nice on the outside." Tommy just looked at her. _Huh._ "Come on," she said, and took his hand.

As for the kissing, it went farther than it had ever gone before (spectacularly good). At some point during it, Tommy got inspired by the idea of Christine's lips near his ear, and how much the idea had turned him on. So instead of waiting for her to do it, he sort of slid his own lips across her cheek to her ear. At the same time, he was suddenly smacked by the boldness of what he'd just done, and instead of sucking on her earlobe like he wanted to, he wound up being very delicate with it, putting the tiniest kisses he could manage on the outer curve of it, mostly just kind of barely touching it with his lips, and he was surprised when one of her hands got all fisted up in his shirt and the other arm went around his waist. She made a little gasping noise against his collarbone, so he took that as a good sign and kept doing what he was doing, adding in an earlobe nibble and then touching just the tip of his tongue to the edge of her ear. This time she moaned a little bit and put her lips against his neck, which felt _amazing_, so he continued.

So did she, with her mouth soft on his neck and then open and wet, and then she sucked his neck, an action that made him hard as a steel bar in his pants. He couldn't help making sort of a grunt-moan combination noise, _Oh my God yes_. His hand sort of moved of its own free will, not him moving it on purpose, up from her waist to her rib cage, just below her tit, and his thumb sort of went into that flat space between her tits – not like he was actually touching her there, but like he _could_. You know, if she let him. She moaned again, back to kissing his collarbone where it poked out of his shirt, and then his hand moved again, up half an inch. He kissed her earlobe again, and then, what the hell, he sucked on it and she pressed closer. Half an inch more. She smelled like flowers and peach, and half an inch higher his fingers were actually on it,_ holy shit that's so soft_.

The 5th period bell startled the hell out of him, and he jumped.

"I'm so late," Christine said into his shirt. "I've been late all week. We are gonna get in trouble… I just don't want to stop."

"I know," he said, light-headed. Here he was still sort of holding her boob like he might shake hands with it, _hello Christine Keagy's right tit, absolutely completely delighted to meet you, _with a giant tent pole in his jeans, and now he had to go to study hall? The whole thing was as vivid and scary and wonderful as a fever dream he didn't want to wake up from, except that a door slammed somewhere nearby, like in the gym, and Christine broke away and ran up the stairs like demons were after her, her face hot pink.

Then she turned and looked down at him from one flight up. "You're gonna be so late too. Are we going out Saturday?"

"I can't drive," he said, in complete horny brain-dead honesty, staring at her.

"It's okay, I'll drive," she said. "Tess said your house is on Hillcrest. Seven? And then we'll decide where we want to go."

"Okay," he said. "I'll call you."

He took his fourth tardy slip from Mrs. Neathawk with no fuss. She looked at him from under worried eyebrows, and said, "Five tardies in a row is an automatic ISS, Tommy. Please keep that in mind."

"Yes ma'am," he said, but he'd hardly heard her. _I had my hand on Christine Keagy's actual physical tit_. Well, sort of under it. But still. His actual fingers had been in the general vicinity of actual cheerleader boob, and it had been soft and yielding like a pillow… except totally more erotic. It had been a nice visit, and he wanted to go back. How in the world did girls get anything done, walking around with breasts? How did they not spend all day touching them?

He was still loopy the rest of the day, and got a 70 on a 10-item quiz in Earth Science, missing three questions he really should have known the answer to, and probably would have if he hadn't kept flashing back to the soft warmth of Christine's tit. Brendan talked to him on the bus, and he missed all of it, only coming out of his boob-induced mental fog to say, "Huh? What?"

Brendan just shook his head and said, "Never mind. Forget it, it's no big deal." And then he'd grinned and messed Tommy's hair up, and Tommy didn't mind. All the same, though, he was going to spend a lot longer in the confessional than he usually did. Having actions to confess rather than just inappropriate thoughts, that made a difference.

* * *

Pop seemed okay when they got home. He made Tommy eat a quick snack – hard-boiled eggs, some celery and carrot sticks, some skim milk – and then they went off to Fitzy's. Mom was hanging with Brendan in the kitchen, talking about some book from his English class, and she seemed okay too, her cheek only a little puffy.

So then they were off to Fitzy's like normal, starting with some work with the free weights – clean-and-jerks, lat pulls, kettlebell passes, dumbbell squats, all the rest. A gazillion pull-ups. Grip-strength exercises. Duck lunges for the legs. They worked a good hour and a half, with water breaks, but by 5:15 Tommy was kind of beat. "Pop? I got some homework."

"We just got started," Pop said, and popped the cap on his third beer. Tommy sometimes wondered if Pop would have been such great friends with Fitzy if Fitzy hadn't made his office refrigerator accessible for alcohol. Coach Moore had come to a couple of Tommy's training sessions with Pop, and looked askance at the bottles. He'd opened his mouth indignantly, and then caught a glance at Tommy's face, and shut it. And Coach had been very careful to watch Tommy after that, enough distance Pop didn't fuss but enough attention that Tommy felt looked after.

At the despairing look on Tommy's face, Pop relented a little. "Okay, okay. Take five now and drink your water. Then go ten minutes with the jump rope and we'll wrap it up."

"Good," Tommy said, panting a little. "Guess I'm still a little behind from the break. I should be back up to speed in a couple of days."

Fitzy lumbered over on his busted knees and chucked Pop on the shoulder. "Paddy! I see you boys are back at it."

"Yep," Pop said, and gestured at Tommy, resting bent over with his butt against the wall and his hands on his knees. "He's a little slow today, gotta get back into it."

"Well, ya don't wanna wear 'im out, though," Fitzy said. Tommy raised his head to see Pop's mouth go thin. "He ain't done growin' yet, you can look at 'im and tell that much. They say too much weight work, too young, can stunt growth. I'm guessin' he ain't gonna be tall 's you, noways." Tommy'd heard that too, about weights. But it was hard to say how tall he might end up, given that Mom was a little shorter than average.

Pop gave Fitzy an annoyed glance and drank some beer. "Tommy? Hop to it."

"What, now?" He hadn't had his five minutes' rest.

"I said hop. And you go fifteen, you hear me?"

Tommy, on the verge of protesting, clocked Pop's sudden mood change. "Yes sir." Jesus, he was going to be exhausted. Would be lucky to finish. But that was that, you didn't question Pop on the subject of training. You just did not. He reached for the jump rope, and then drank some more water. He retied the flopping laces on his training shoes, drawing out his rest period – if Pop saw him at least preparing to jump, nominally following directions, he might not push Tommy any farther. As long as it _looked_ like unquestioning obedience, Pop would probably let it slide. He went at it, a little slower in pace than he normally jumped rope, both because he was tired and because he'd have to go longer than usual. Twelve minutes in, according to the big wire-cage clock on the wall, Pop told him he could knock it off, so he wound it down, slowing and slowing. He was still panting and his chest hurt.

"Attaboy," Pop said. "That leg botherin' you?"

"Not much." It was only a twinge. What hurt was his wind, and he was sweaty and shaky and knock-kneed as if he'd just run a marathon.

"Well, all right then. Let's knock off. Go home, get you into the shower, get you fed." Pop tilted his head back and finished the beer, and they went out, Tommy's hands so shaky they could barely manage his gear bag. He just closed his eyes and drifted on the way home, enjoying the way oxygen felt going into his lungs. He ignored Pop's hands tapping on the steering wheel and the way Pop was swearing at other drivers.

_Just get home. Just take it easy. Tackle the stupid polynomials after dinner. Get some rest. Get some privacy so you can think about your fingers on Christine Keagy's tit._

Now,_ that_ sounded like a plan.

They went inside and Pop went straight for the Jameson's bottle. Tommy, exhausted, watched Pop pour a shortie and put the bottle away, and then he headed straight for the shower. He stayed under the water long enough for Pop to come pound on the door. "You been in there twenty minutes, Tom, shut it off." Once dressed, he poked his head out to see what Pop's mood was like.

Not good: pacing around the living room, telling Brendan that _no,_ he could not have the car to drive over to Tess Mahoney's house to study. Mom called them to dinner, which turned out to be mostly leftovers, with extra veggies and limited carbs for Tommy. Pop drank two beers and didn't talk much. Nobody talked, really. Tommy would have been fizzing with excitement, except that he really couldn't share exactly why he'd enjoyed lunch period so much, and he was so exhausted it felt like there was a hippo sitting on his chest. Also, his calf was starting to feel achy and tight again. He grimaced.

When Tommy had eaten all the broccoli and squash and carrots he could hold, along with some leftover steak, and when Mom and Brendan went into the kitchen to clean up, he headed for the stairs, thinking he could stretch out his calf up there. "Go lie on your bed and I'll work that knot out again," Pop said, clumsily. The booze had started to kick in, but between the massage and Pirates spring training games on TV, Tommy figured Pop would be content to just sit in his chair downstairs and stay in tonight.

Pop followed him up to his bedroom and told him to strip down to boxers. Tommy pulled his sweatpants off and just lay on the bed, and Pop went to work on the knot, which seemed mysteriously bigger than it had that morning. "This needs some Icy-Hot," Pop said, after it had loosened up some. "It's just gonna cramp up again unless you keep it relaxed. You got some up here?"

"On the dresser," Tommy said, almost half asleep from tiredness and the comfort of being horizontal. Pop stepped away from the bed, and did not come right back with the muscle ointment, which Tommy knew was in plain sight in front of a bunch of trophies.

"What's this?" Pop said in a mild tone of voice. "This phone number." Tommy was about to say he didn't know, when suddenly he remembered, and he was no longer sleepy at all. _Oh shit oh shit._ "Angela Chin. Ain't she the little Chinese gal that wrote that article about you?"

"Um, yeah," he said, trying to make it sound like his heart wasn't beating right out of his chest, that it wasn't that big a deal. "I thought I'd better hang on to it in case she got something wrong in the article and I'd have to call her back and set her straight. But it looked to me like she did okay, so I guess you can throw it away now." Tommy hated lying, not least because he sucked at it. He would always rather just avoid saying anything.

"Hmm," Pop said. That was all, but the hairs went prickling up on the back of Tommy's neck, even when Pop came back and rubbed the ointment on his leg. "You keepin' up with your studies, son?"

"Um, yes sir. Got some homework to do."

"Make sure you do it then," Pop said, managing to make that sound like a threat. Brendan came in and sat on his bed with a textbook, reading. "What you got there, Brendan?"

"American history," Brendan said. "Test tomorrow."

"Well. You get that studyin' done." And Pop went downstairs. Tommy hopped up as soon as decently possible, and went to the dresser to see what Pop had done with the scrap of paper. It was gone.

_Shit. Oh shit_. No, wait, maybe he could remember it… "Brendan," he said urgently, over the noise of a baseball game on TV downstairs, "Write this down. Now." He closed his eyes and saw the number, printed neatly on the scrap of paper, and he read it off the page in his mind.

Brendan repeated it back to him. "What was that?" he wanted to know.

"Keep it in your notebook, okay?" Tommy pleaded. "And no name, just that number. Don't let Pop see it." Brendan just stared at him. "It's that reporter's number."

"You realize you could just call the Post-Gazette and ask for her, dumbass," Brendan said.

"No, that's her mobile number," Tommy explained. "Pop was up here and he saw it. I think – I_ think _I'm okay, I told him to go ahead and throw it away, I didn't need it since the article came out fine and she didn't screw anything up." He grabbed a pair of track pants and slipped them on.

There was a little silence, and then Brendan said, "Smart. See, I knew you had more brains than you let on."

"Oh shut up," Tommy said, and threw a sock at Brendan. Who laughed and threw his pillow back at Tommy. "Listen," Tommy said, getting tired of the old game because he had stuff to talk about, "something happened today. Something – okay, look: I got my hand on Christine Keagy's boob, and I am dying to tell somebody but I can't really because that wouldn't be gentlemanly." He stopped, but only because Brendan had collapsed laughing on his bed at some point during that declaration. "_Shut up._ But seriously, it was my first tit and it was goddamn perfect. You know? I mean, it was perfect because it was a tit, but also because it was Christine Keagy's, you get me? And I can't even tell anybody." He picked Brendan's pillow up and hit him with it. "Shut_ up,_ asshole."

"You told me," Brendan said, still giggling like a fool.

"Well, don't tell anybody else, okay?"

"Okay." But Brendan went on laughing for another couple of minutes. "'Gentlemanly.' Jesus, Tommy, you kill me." The TV noise from the living room went suddenly silent, and there was a clinking noise that sounded like a bottle on a glass, not a sound that would normally travel upstairs. "Damn," Brendan said. "Just… damn."

"Maybe he'll stay in tonight."

"And maybe he'll rearrange Mom's face. He's been spoiling for somethin' for a couple days now." Brendan looked Tommy up and down. "And he ran you ragged today, didn't he? You look like you been through the wringer."

"Hard training day," Tommy admitted. "I shouldn't have taken so much time off."

"Bullshit," Brendan said. "He put the hammer down, takin' it out on you. I don't know how you can stand it."

Tommy, puzzled, sat down on Brendan's bed. "It's what I _do_. I go to school, I wrestle, I train."

There were voices downstairs, low, Mom saying something soothing and Pop arguing with her – not loud, but stubborn. Then Pop's voice rang loud into the stairwell. "Tommy! Brendan! Get down here, _now!_"

"Shit," Brendan muttered under his breath. "If I tell you to get out, go." Tommy didn't answer; there wasn't time to as they both stood and went down the stairs.

In the living room, Pop was pacing with his whiskey glass, and Mom was saying things like "Now hang on a minute, Paddy, you don't _know_ for sure," and "They're just boys."

_We are in so much trouble,_ Tommy thought, the top of his head cold.

"You call that reporter?" Pop said, pointing at Tommy.

"No sir."

Pop pointed at Brendan. "You?"

"No sir. Pop, I think Tommy just thou–"

"_I'm_ talkin' here!" Pop roared, and tossed back all the whiskey in his glass, _half a glass_, like four shots at once. Brendan took a deep breath and settled himself more firmly on his feet, and Tommy couldn't have said how he knew that because he was tripping on adrenaline, in his mind already working out an escape route for Mom… out the kitchen door into the backyard, up through the Williams' backyard and onto Raleigh Court, where Mrs. Lipinski from church lived, two blocks down…

Except that he couldn't leave Brendan here by himself. _Oh shit we are in so much trouble._

Pop flung the glass, one of those heavy old-fashioned tumblers, at the wall, where it cracked and dropped to the floor. "Goddamn it, boys, we don't talk to outsiders! I don't like the way she was lookin' at you, makin' up stuff in her head, troublemaking little Chinky bitch…" He kicked at his chair. "And fuckin' Fitzy, tellin' me to lay off, goddammit, I'm the best trainer you could have. Tommy, you're fine, aren't you, you're just fucking _fine_, nobody's workin' you into the ground."

Tommy, still poised on the balls of his feet, was too slow to answer, and Pop put both his hands under the coffee table and flipped it halfway across the room. "_Answer me!_"

"I'm fi-, 'm fine, Pop, I'm just fine," he stammered. "I'm okay, I'm just a little tired today. Took too much time off from training, you were right, I shouldn't do that, I'll be just fine tomorrow."

"Fuck it!" Pop yelled. "What the hell you wanna call that woman for? What poison you gonna pour in her ear 'bout me?"

"I didn't, I didn't…" Tommy raised his hands up to try to calm Pop down. "I just wanted to make sure she wrote it right, so if she screwed it up – Pop, I mean it, I didn't _call_ her, I didn't."

"Paddy, honey, I told you there was nothin' to worry about," Mom said, walking right into the space between Pop and Tommy. "He was just being cautious. Nobody is airin' our laundry, it's fine."

"Bullshit!" Pop roared into Mom's face. "I _see _the way Father Jerz looks at me on Sunday – why do you think I don't _go_ anymore, you tattling bitch?"

"I wish you would go with me," Mom said softly. "I miss you at church."

"That's not fucking happening," Pop said, and put his hand on Mom's shoulder, shoving her out of the way. "I'm not done with you yet, son – you don't let people in on our _private business_, you hear me? Do you _hear me?_"

"Yes sir," Tommy said, hating the way his voice shook.

Pop picked up Tommy's trophy from the cabinet, where it had wound up after they took it to Fitzy's the other day, and shook it. "You know how you got this, right?_ I _got you there._ I _got you there, goddammit, and nobody's gonna tell me I'm doin' you harm. I wouldn't hurt you, and don't you tell people I would."

"Yes sir," Tommy tried to say, but his voice cracked halfway through so that it was nothing more than a choked sound, and Pop threw the trophy. A wrestling figure on top of a marble base with metal pillars, it was heavy – probably five or six pounds – but Pop flung it anyway, across the ten feet separating them. It hit Tommy on the hip, hitting marble edge first and falling just to the side of his foot, and the breath went out of him. He didn't fall, but he took a step back and Brendan bore him back upright, Brendan stepped in front of him.

"Don't you hurt him," Brendan said, low and vicious, like he hated Pop. "He didn't do anything."

Mom was suddenly there next to Brendan, in front of Tommy. "Paddy. _No._"

Tommy, trying to keep tears of pain and shame from falling, kept feeling the shock of the trophy hitting him. If Pop had been closer it would have hit him in the face, and what he hated most was the idea that Pop was willing to hurt him just so nobody outside the family would _find out_ how Pop was willing to hurt him, or Brendan, or Mom. _This is sick,_ something said out loud in his brain. _This is wrong_.

Pop made an inarticulate noise of rage and went straight for the door, not even grabbing his coat or his keys. He yanked it open and slammed it after him, so hard that the windows rattled. After one moment of startled silence, Brendan leaped for the door and locked it, leaning against it like dudes with a battering ram were outside. Mom, meanwhile, was already turning to pull Tommy's shirt up. "Where did it hit you, baby? Show me."

Tommy, his hands shaking, pointed. Mom eased his trackies down just a little, enough to expose his hipbone, and hissed through her teeth. Her fingers were gentle, but it hurt like hell. "Okay, honey," Mom said. "Go lie down on the couch for me, and I'll get you some ice."

"How bad?" Brendan asked. Tommy wanted to know that himself, but his teeth were chattering now and he couldn't say anything.

"It's a bruise," Mom said from the kitchen. "And a little cut where the edge hit." She came back in with an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel, plus two ibuprofen and a glass of water. Tommy took the pills with water and then lay down on the couch with the ice pack. Mom covered him with a crocheted afghan and kissed his forehead, wiping his face dry. "Baby. I'm so sorry. I should have gotten between you."

"You didn't know he was going to throw anything," Brendan said. "I should have shoved Tommy out of the way. I should have realized."

Mom shook her head. "I'm not going to tell either one of you that you did wrong, because you didn't. He just… he just gets so sensitive sometimes, over such little things."

"He gets _drunk,_ Mom." Brendan got down on his knees next to her and reached to turn her shoulder toward him. "He's getting worse, you know. I haven't seen him this bad since I was, oh, seven? Since we went and stayed at the women's shelter that week, after that time you were in the hospital."

Mom's eyes brimmed with tears too, and then she turned away from Brendan. "Tommy, honey, do you have homework you have to turn in tomorrow?"

_Algebra._ Galvanized, Tommy sat up on the couch, groaning at how his hip felt. "Yeah. Yeah, I gotta do it."

"Where is it?" Brendan said. "Upstairs? I'll help you."

"I gotta understand it," Tommy protested. "I won't get it unless I do the work."

"Then you can do it again by yourself over the weekend," Brendan said fiercely, "but I'll help you tonight." He stood up. "In fact, you should be in bed right now. You're about to fall over anyway, even without this shit."

It was a measure of Mom's disturbed state of mind that she did not chastise Brendan for his vocabulary.

"Come on," Brendan coaxed. "Up. You're goin' to bed." And somehow, Brendan helped him up the stairs and into bed. Tommy lay there, his hip throbbing and his eyes watery, not sleeping, while Brendan's pencil skimmed over paper. "There," he said some minutes later, "it's done. Copy the work in your handwriting tomorrow, okay?" Tommy nodded. Brendan sighed and turned off the lamp. "Go on to sleep now. It's okay, I'm here."

And Tommy dropped off… only to startle awake later, jumping out of a dream of falling boulders and pursuing bears. "Hush," Brendan said, and got into bed with Tommy. "Scoot over a little. That hurt your hip?" It did, but only a little. Brendan put his head on Tommy's shoulder, and Brendan's face was wet too.

Having Brendan's familiar shape and smell nearby slowed Tommy's racing heart, enough for him to fall asleep again.


	6. Chapter 6: The Fight

**Fight or Flight**

Ch 6

**A/N: Whole bunch of stuff happens here, and it's a long chapter. This one has been really tough to write. Really tough. If you have violence triggers, PLEASE be careful reading.**

**Really, **_**really**_** tough. My unending thanks to Nik216 and Wynter S Komen, for plotty/charactery idea-bouncing. Smooches, y'all. Also, much love to anybody who's commented or even read this thing. It matters. Thank you. (I would like it known that I **_**never**_** went to the principal's office for disciplinary purposes, so I had to canvass some high school friends of mine for the details.)**

Tommy, swimming up through layers of exhaustion and lingering pain from his hip, registered a pounding noise from somewhere and a sudden coldness on his right side. "Bren?" Nothing. "Brendan?"

Then, downstairs, the door opening and heavy footsteps, and that woke Tommy up. His hip throbbed, the ice pack long ago gone too warm to help. _So Pop's home. Probably shit-faced._ But the first words out of Pop's mouth, though slurred somewhat, surprised him. "How's my boy?"

There was a short silence, followed by Mom's gentle voice. "He's bruised up pretty bad, Paddy."

"I'll go up 'n see him, tell 'im 'm sorry."

"No, Pop," Brendan said, "he's sleeping. Worn out. You can tell him in the morning."

"Let 'im sleep in. He can run a little in the afternoon then."

"You get some rest too," Mom said. "Come on now. Bed. Brendan, you take your brother up a few more Advil and another ice pack, all right?"

Brendan didn't answer, but there was more rustling and the noise of cabinet doors and running water and the toilet flushing and the freezer door, all the attendant clatter of getting Pop to bed, and then Brendan's feet on the stairs. Brendan's form was a different shade of dark in the dark bedroom. "Hey," he whispered. "You awake?"

"Not sure," Tommy said through dry lips.

"Sit up. Here." Tommy, sitting up, groaned at the swollen ache of the hip. But he drank the water with the pills, and then changed out the old ice pack for the new one. "Can you sleep okay if I'm over here in my bed?" Brendan wanted to know.

"Yeah."

"Good. You snore like a pig."

Tommy wanted to retort back that so did Brendan, but what was the point? Brendan had gone to the mat for Tommy tonight. So he said, "Thank you," instead, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, there was the hint of morning sun in the room, and Pop leaning over him, smelling like hangover despite a shower and clean clothes. "Tommy," Pop said. "Tommy, you all right?"

"'S not bad," Tommy said. "Stiff, is all."

"Your mother said – well, never mind. You can have a good run this afternoon, and we'll let that be it for today. I'm goin' in to work now."

"Okay."

Pop rumpled Tommy's hair and went out, down the stairs. Tommy turned over, hissing at the pain of the bruise and feeling lucky he wouldn't be running this morning. A little while later the alarm went off, and Brendan jumped out of bed for the shower. Tommy sat up, slow, testing the limits of his hip. It hurt even more now than it had last night – not surprising, since the blood had had time to pool in the tissues and cause swelling. He got up, put on his loosest jeans and a short-sleeve polo out of Brendan's drawer, and went down the stairs to the kitchen, wincing.

"Hi, sweetie," Mom said, scooping scrambled eggs out of the pan. "Let me get this done, and then I need to see your hip."

"I'm not takin' my pants down for you," he said, only halfway teasing.

"Come on, I'm your mother. I've seen it plenty," she said, and laughed before giving him a tender glance. "I know it hurts you, I watched you walk in here." She put the pan in the sink and took off her apron. "Go ahead, I need to see."

He pulled up the shirt, unbuttoned the jeans partway, and slid them down. Mom just looked for a minute, biting her bottom lip, and Tommy got brave enough to look down at it too. _Ow. Shit_. It was purple and swollen, looked even worse than it felt, and that was saying something. She inhaled through her nose and gently pulled the jeans back into place. "Well. You have PE class on Fridays?" He nodded. "Well, today you don't. I'll write you a note to get you out of it today. Good thing it's the end of the week." She shook her head and dropped her voice, though Pop was nowhere near the house. "He really scared me last night. That thing could've hit you in the head." She poured him some milk and handed him two more Advil.

Brendan was right, Pop was getting worse. "Yeah," he said, "but he didn't. And we're okay. So don't fuss so much." He kissed her cheek and got out a plate for eggs and whole wheat toast, cottage cheese and orange slices.

When Brendan came in after his shower, he took one look at Tommy and put up a fuss. "That's_ my _shirt."

"Yep," Tommy said, and ate more eggs.

"You're wearing _my_ shirt. You didn't ask if you could borrow my shirt."

"_You're_ not wearin' it."

"I can't wear everything I own at once!" Brendan slung a leg over his chair and sat down with his own breakfast. "You got your own shirts, wear 'em."

"Wanted something looser," Tommy said, hating the way his voice came out defensive. It wasn't Brendan's fault.

There was a pause. "Okay," Brendan said, and then, grudgingly, "that color looks nicer on you than it does on me anyway."

"Thank you," Tommy said. He agreed, secretly – the faded, beachy red made his eyes look dark and mysterious.

"Oh, don't look so smug," Brendan said. "You feelin' okay?"

"Not too bad." He'd had bruises almost as bad with wrestling, anyway.

Mom sat down with her coffee. "You are not running this afternoon. I will put my foot down on that, and I'm sure your father will see sense once he's gotten a good look at it." Her voice was grim. "And if I have to take you to the doctor, I will do that."

Doctors were a touchy subject in their house. Brendan's eyebrows went up, but he didn't say anything about doctors. Instead, he reminded Mom that he'd been invited to dinner at Tess Mahoney's house. He'd be going home with her after school, and then they were going to a birthday party at Tess' friend Deanna Miles' house after that, and he'd be home on the bus by midnight.

_Oh, that's right_. Brendan had been talking about it, dropping mentions one sentence at a time, for three weeks now. Tommy would have loved to give Brendan shit about it, but he just couldn't, not today. "Have a good time," Tommy said, and even though it involved That Girl, as dangerously close as Brendan had been getting to her, he found himself actually meaning it.

Brendan looked up across the table and smiled at him. "Thanks, man."

On the bus, Tommy copied Brendan's hurried late-night math scribbles onto his own paper in his own straight-up-and-down handwriting, and was grateful all over again for his brother. "Hey," he said, edging his head up near Brendan's on the bus. "How am I gonna explain why I'm walkin' funny?" He didn't want to say he'd fallen down the steps. That was what Mom said when she needed an excuse. The last thing he needed was for somebody – Coach Moore, maybe – to get suspicious.

"Hmm." Brendan looked him over. "How about… oh, I know. We were wrestling and I got you pinned up against a piece of furniture. Say the edge of the dresser in our room, right?"

"Great. I'm the injured one, and you get to pretend that you kicked my ass," Tommy groused, but all the same Brendan was right. That would work fine.

Brendan smirked. "I better take a win where I can get it. Even if I made it up."

The morning was fine, other than the stiffness and pain in his hip that made a hitch in his stride. At lunch, he wound up sitting with some of the wrestling guys, and Christine Keagy came to sit with him. Which was awesome – both that she liked him enough to come out of her usual cheerleader zone, and that the guys were staring like they had never been this close to actual girl boobs before. Bullshit, of course, and Jason Firebaugh had a girlfriend, but she had a different lunch period. So anyway, at lunch, he was trying to make conversation, and he asked Christine if she was going to the birthday party.

He was getting to know her face, the way she showed thoughts on it, even with lunch and those short makeout sessions being their only time together. She made frowny eyebrows and looked down, shaking her head. He reached under the table with one hand, eating with the other, and patted her leg. There was, yeah, a certain element of _OMG my hand is on Christine Keagy's thigh_ to it, but mostly it was just that he could tell she wasn't happy.

When he finished eating and Christine had finished picking at her salad (she never seemed to eat real food, as far as Tommy could tell), he reached for her hand, and she looked up at him. "Wanna go?" She nodded, and they walked out of the cafeteria. "So… I thought you were friends with Deanna Miles." He'd been wondering, as a matter of fact, whether she might hook up with somebody else there.

"No," she said. "She hates me."

"Thought you cheerleaders were buddy-buddy, all up in each other's business."

"Most of us get along. But I stole Deanna's boyfriend once, and she hasn't gotten over it." They started down the steps, slowly because of his limp, and Christine kept talking. "I mean… it was like, she thought he was The One, and I didn't know that. I thought he was fair game. So I took him off in the corner at a party after a football game last fall, and he was trying to get his hands down my bra and she saw, and she doesn't talk to me now."

Tommy had a sudden flash of Pop the other night, after he'd been out so late and come home smelling like… well, like _that_.

"_You _don't have another girlfriend, do you?" Christine asked, stopping on the landing. He shook his head. "Oh. Good. Thought not, since you said you hadn't kissed anybody." And then she laughed, pulling him downward on the stairs again. "But you coulda been lying, 'cause you kiss really well."

"Natural talent," he said. This time he didn't wait for her to pull him in and kiss him first. This time he went right for her, one hand on her waist and one in her hair, lip to lip for a few moments before she let her lips part, and he was _so there_, mouth-sharing in the best sort of way. She put a cool hand to the back of his neck, holding him close. She smelled like herself, peachy shampoo and flowery perfume and warm girl skin, very nice. He could get used to it. He could really like getting used to having a girl around…

"You are _so _good at this," she said, coming up for air, and then going right back to it.

Next time they breathed, he said, "Good coach."

Her mouth smiled against his, and then she said, "Can you… will you kiss my ear again? Please? I loved it yesterday."

_Well, twist my arm._ He did everything the same as yesterday, including sliding his hand up from her waist again, his heart pounding at the idea of Christine's boob in his hand. And when she took a shuddery breath against his neck, he let his hand come all the way up to that softness, pressing gently into it… _like a big soft marshmallow, I don't want to squish it too much… _

She made a little soft moaning noise and without meaning to, he covered her whole breast with his hand, feeling the little nub in the center and realizing what it was, and whatever part of him was not already hard in his jeans went completely stiff, _holy holy shit, oh Jesus that is so good. _His brain went lizard, language deserted him, and without intending to do it he pressed his hips against hers.

She gasped against his throat and kissed him there, and he couldn't help thinking what it would be like to have her mouth on him, down low, and he shuddered all the way down. "Okay?" she whispered, and he made an _mm-hmm_ noise near her ear and then went kissing down her neck, tasting her. She shivered too, and then her hand found its way to his thigh, very near his crotch. Another noise came out of him then, against her neck, a sort of _nnngggh _sound, and he licked down lower, to her collarbone. She put her hand right on him, with warm pressure.

"Oh my God," she said, breathless. "Is that – is all that you? That's all _you?_"

It made no sense to him, in that place where touch ate up language and he could only think in terms of _tits soft hands dick hard lips tongue wet breath warm_, only the things themselves and not the words for them. He searched around before he came up with anything to say. He said, "Wha'?" unable to even finish the word.

"This, this I've got my hand on," she said, squeezing his dick gently, and then he understood. "Mother of God, if this is all you I'm gonna choke on it tomorrow night. Jesus." The mental picture of Christine's pretty pink mouth on him set his brain on fire, and he made another noise into her neck, something that started out to be "fuck, yes," but wound up more like _ffffffuuuhh_. He kissed around to the other side of her neck, listening to her make soft little sounds, and then he had both his hands on her tits, feeling the nipples puckered up right in the center of his palms and hoping she liked it. Then he went back to kissing her mouth, deep and soft and wet, tongues sliding together, and it was all wordless ecstasy, everything felt good.

There was another noise, a loud one, but they both ignored it until it went away. Then there was another loud noise, but they ignored that one too. What with the way their hands were full of each other and the kissing, Tommy's ears were ringing anyway, almost like he was underwater, and it took a pointy poking finger on his shoulder to even get him to raise his head. It took a further five seconds for him to be able to hear anything, and the fuzziness had to clear his vision, too.

"_Tommy,_" Coach Moore was saying into his ear. "Knock it off, man. _Christine._ You guys, do I have to pour cold water on you?"

"Oh no," Christine said, backing completely away from Tommy, "oh no, please don't call my mom."

Tommy was still fighting his way up out of that no-language place, and the first thing out of his mouth was, "Coach."

"I'm glad to know you recognize me," Coach Moore said drily, eyebrows up. "Look. You both know this is completely inappropriate behavior, and you are both out of class. Miss Keagy, where are you supposed to be?"

"Um, Chemistry," Christine said. "With Mr. Stevens."

"And you, Tommy?"

"Study Hall, Mrs. Neathawk."

"Uh-huh. Listen, my responsibility is clear here. This is beyond my letting you go with a warning, which I would do for a quick smooch. You were _well_ past that point. Let's…" Coach Moore sighed and shook his head. "Okay, let's go on up to the office and have a chat with Mr. Trumbower." Tommy had to go up the stairs slower than usual, and Coach Moore noticed. "Tommy, son, what happened to you? You workin' too hard with your dad down at the gym?"

Lying to Coach Moore was a lot different than lying to the other kids. "Bren and me, we were wrestling and I got pinned up against the dresser."

Coach Moore stopped dead. "Brendan pinned you?"

"I got distracted. We don't have to stop for me, I can keep going. It's just a bruise." And Coach nodded and started walking again, and that was that. Tommy tried not to let his relief show.

It was only then that he realized that all the time he'd been kissing Christine, his hip hadn't hurt at all. He hadn't been in pain or worried or anything – it had been like running or working out, the way he could simply switch off his brain and just be in his body, except with less effort and way more pleasure.

_Maybe that's why Pop_… but he didn't finish the thought, he couldn't think of Pop being like that with somebody who wasn't Mom. He couldn't think of him like that Mom either, to be honest, it was too weird.

So then they were in Mr. Trumbower's office, and the full description of what he and Christine had been doing, laid out flat the way Coach told it, was quite possibly the most embarrassing experience of Tommy's life. The upshot of the whole thing was that conferences with parents would be required, and a warning placed on their official records, but that was it for the PDA. As for Tommy's being out of class, the principal noted that it was his fifth tardy in five days, and that had the automatic result of one day of in-school suspension, which he would serve on Monday.

Before Tommy could even panic that Pop would find out, Mr. Trumbower was lifting the phone handset and dialing a number, speaking to Christine's mom on speakerphone. He could feel the rush of blood to his ears, listening to the principal describe what happened and feeling Christine squirm in her seat next to him. He threw her an apologetic glance; she'd been crying without making any noise. Tommy put his hand on her arm and said, "It'll be okay," before realizing he wasn't supposed to touch her at all and sitting back into his own seat with a thump. Christine's mom, who sounded concerned, made arrangements to have a conference on Monday, and then Mr. Trumbower excused Christine to go on to class. She left, throwing Tommy a longing glance over her shoulder that made him fight down a rush of want. _Tomorrow. Tomorrow_.

Then the principal was on speakerphone with his own mother, who sounded a little puzzled and on edge, but not upset the way Pop would be. Mom said she'd come down to the school right now and get the parent conference taken care of, she had a neighbor who would drive her. He couldn't help letting his shoulders relax a little. Mom would be unhappy with him and he would definitely have to tell her what his penance was once he'd been to Confession, but she wouldn't pitch a fit the way Pop would.

He waited in the office, feeling his ears heat up with embarrassment, and, occasionally, remembered extreme hotness: the feel of Christine's tongue on his upper lip, the bounce of her breasts and the hard centers of them, the heat of her hand on his boner. He tried not to remember what she'd said about his dick and the breathless sound of her voice when she said it, it was too exciting. Way too exciting and way too hopeful, and that was for tomorrow night anyway. Tomorrow.

And _anyway_ anyway, she might be in enough trouble with her mom that she couldn't go out with him. _Wait and see._

Mom came in through the office door, looking pretty and neat in a dress, with her usual lightweight cardigan over it. She never showed her arms, and he'd been all of twelve years old when he finally realized that it was because she had bruises on her arms most of the time. "Honey," she said, and she sounded worried but there was the tiniest quirk to her mouth, too, like he'd done something stupid but cute. He stood up and made a small gesture to the front desk, but there wasn't any need.

Mr. Trumbower – 6'4", a good 220 or 230 pounds (he looked like a linebacker, big but fast), curly light brown hair and a laughing kind of mouth – came right out of his office. "Mrs. Conlon? Thank you for coming down so quickly, and I appreciate your being here to talk with me." He showed them into his office. "Coach Moore has just a few minutes before his planning period is over, so I thought he might be willing to tell us what went on and you could ask questions if you have any."

Tommy, now feeling the complete humiliation of what might happen when Coach told Mom exactly whose hands were where and how out of control things were, slouched down in his seat and closed his eyes. But Coach Moore took pity on him and described it merely as "um… inappropriate touching." Mom's eyes got big. "Over clothes, mind you," Coach added quickly. "Still. It was… not suitable public behavior."

Mom opened her mouth and then shut it without looking at Tommy. Her cheeks were pink.

"Look," Coach said, "I know he's a good kid. I know he's a very focused and disciplined kid. But the hormones can get out of hand. It happens." To Tommy he said, "I understand, I really do. But I need you to keep that out of the halls. I need my athletes to be good examples."

"This will be your only warning," Mr. Trumbower said. "I expect it not to happen again." The bell rang, and Coach Moore got up, apologizing, to go to class.

"Yes sir," Tommy said, conscious of the blood swelling his ears and willing it not to go elsewhere. "Mom, I'm sorry. It was – I didn't think."

"That much seems clear," she said, and rolled her eyes. "We will talk about this _at home_, young man, and I can assure you that if you don't talk to Father Jerz about it, _I will_. Which w/ould you rather?"

"Oh, definitely me," Tommy assured her, imagining the horror having his mother explain to the priest. Gah. No.

"Thank you, sir," Mom said, and offered her hand to Mr. Trumbower to shake. "Tommy _will_ be minding his behavior from this point on, whether it's girls, or – whatever. I can assure you of that." She signed the disciplinary paper thing and watched Mr. Trumbower put it into what had to be Tommy's personal file. Tommy shook his head and said to himself, _I can't afford to do that again_. "I'm taking you home," she said to Tommy, and then looked at the principal, her eyes wide. "I can do that, can't I?"

"You _can,_" he said hesitantly. "It's sixth period now, so he wouldn't be missing that much."

"Just PE and Spanish," Tommy said, hopeful.

"All right then, let's go," Mom said. She thanked Mr. Trumbower again, and they signed him out, and they went down to the parking lot where Mrs. Leahy waited in her ancient white station wagon. "Mrs. Leahy, I can't thank you enough for the ride."

"It's no trouble, Mary Fran," Mrs. Leahy said in her creaky old-lady voice. "Not at all. I wish I could help more."

"You can't," Mom said, baldly, as Mrs. Leahy pulled out. "It only makes things worse."

"One of these days you'll have had enough, and you'll either hightail it out or you'll shoot him." Mrs. Leahy said, matter-of-fact. "Tommy, you in trouble? You breakin' your mother's heart?"

Tommy, startled by what Mrs. Leahy seemed to know, opened his mouth, but Mom answered for him in a no-nonsense tone. "He was thoughtless, but I am quite sure he'll obey the rules from now on. Won't you?"

"Yes ma'am," Tommy said, and started breathing again.

Once they were inside the house, Mom called him to come into the kitchen with her, where she made some decaf coffee for herself and gave him some juice with more Advil, which he needed by then. "Now," she said, "help me fold this laundry and you tell me everything about this Christine girl, you understand?" Mom always knew he couldn't talk when his hands were sitting empty – she always gave him something to do.

So he told her. Everything, except how it felt to have Christine's hand on his dick (that was too weird to confess). Mom made some raised-eyebrow faces, but she didn't fuss much, she just listened. By then the towels were folded, and Mom took his hand and sat him on the couch. "Tommy," she said, "I have a thing to say to you."

_Oh crap, she's going to tell me how disappointed she is_. Mom never did that, and maybe it was because she could tell how much it hurt when Pop said shit like that.

She took a deep breath. "You're a lot like me, honey. You are very… you are a physically affectionate person. You've always been that way. That's just you, and it is normal and healthy and right to be you. But I want to caution you not to get caught up in physical things with a girl you don't know well. Because the way you are, you are… hmm… vulnerable to lettin' being close with your body take the place of being close in your heart. You will think that if a girl lets you do things with her body, she must love you – the inside, real you. And that is not the way the world works. It's just not." She took Tommy's chin in her hand and held it so she could look into his eyes.

Tommy looked back, seeing her eyes like a mirror of his. Odd how much he looked like Mom, very little of Pop in his face at all, even though sometimes he understood Pop better than anybody else seemed to.

"Your brother is different. He's not going to get involved with a girl who doesn't engage his mind, a girl he doesn't like and admire. That's him. I don't worry about him in this matter, I have other things to worry about with Brendan. But you? You are a person who lives in his body, and what happens to it affects the rest of you. So I tell you again, do not mistake physical attraction for love."

There was a sort of sadness in Mom's face, and something twisted in Tommy's chest. "Is – did that happen to you?" he asked, awkward and knowing he was being awkward.

She was silent a moment. "I love your father. I won't leave him. And I would never go back and not marry him, because then you and your brother wouldn't exist, and I couldn't bear that. But sometimes…" She sighed, and let go of his chin. "Sometimes when I'm bein' selfish, I wish I had known that about myself. Tommy, my beautiful boy, you need to understand yourself, and guard your heart for the person who will love you completely."

He nodded, and leaned forward to take Mom in his arms. Funny how much older he felt, just in this one week. If being an adult meant you knew these hard things and you kept going anyway, he didn't want to grow up.

Not that he had a choice. Everybody grew up.

After a minute, Mom patted his shoulder and kissed his cheek. "And now I need to put that chicken in the oven or it won't cook in time for dinner."

"I should go do that homework I didn't get done last night," he told her.

So he was sitting on his bed, going over polynomials and really digging in to what worked and why, when it occurred to him that Pop was late getting home. His stomach fell. If Pop was late, he'd stopped by the Steeltown Tavern, or River Johnny's, or The Dark Horse first. That was never good. Tommy distracted himself with doing a few more algebra problems, but when he'd done the same problem twice and gotten two different wrong answers, he realized it wouldn't work. He'd have to do something to get the fuzz out of his head and the worry out of his shoulders.

He hopped off the bed and down to the Steelers rug on the floor, doing pushups until he was clear-headed again and there was a painful stretched-out feeling in his hip. He checked the clock: 4:53 pm. Bad. If all went well, Pop's shift ended at 3 and he was home by 3:30, quarter to four if traffic was worse than usual. And usually he'd take Tommy down to Fitzy's for a workout – Brendan too, sometimes. Had Pop forgotten they were supposed to be training today? Even if Tommy's hip was too bad to run, he could have done some upper-body stuff.

He got the dumbbells out from under the bed and wrapped an old towel around them so he could work on his grip, doing curls and rows holding the towel instead of the weight itself. That kept him busy for another forty minutes, and Pop was still not home. He had another go at the math and made some progress, but didn't finish the assignment because he kept listening for the door.

It would be better if Brendan were home.

He went downstairs and set the table for three. Mom was still busy in the kitchen, and he went in and helped a little, sneaking raw carrots when she wasn't looking. "Sweetheart," she said, and stopped to take a deep breath. "Listen. I think… I think it would be okay if you and I kept today private from your father. I think he would be quite upset, and I just… I want to make sure he's rational before we talk to him about it. Does that sound fair to you?"

"Yes," he said, his voice scratchy with sudden fear. If Pop knew, he'd be angry. Was it fair to not tell him? And how could you measure "fair" if you were scared out of your wits anyway?

He wondered what Brendan was doing. Lucky Brendan, out of the house and on a date with a girl who liked him.

Pop did not get home until 6:30, but he came right in and sat down at the table. "Smells good," he said, "and I'm hungry." Tommy could smell beer and cigarette smoke and whiskey coming off him every time he moved, but no strange perfume.

"Comin' right up," Mom said, her shoulders relaxing again.

Tommy, though, could see that Pop was jumpy and distracted. Maybe he just forgot about Tommy's training. Except that Pop never forgot anything that made him upset.

"Brendan out with that little girl tonight, huh?" Pop said. Mom said yes, and started dishing up roast chicken and rice with vegetables. "Well, Tom, you run today?"

"No sir," Tommy said. "Hip."

Just for a second, Pop looked sick, like he was going to throw up, and then he shook it off. "Nonsense, you can always run."

"Did some push-ups and grip exercises, figured upper body work wouldn't bother it," Tommy told him.

"Let me see," Pop said, peremptorily, gesturing for Tommy to get up from the table. "Now. Come on." Tommy exchanged a glance with Mom and then stood up, sliding his pants out of the way. Pop's face went sick again, and guilty, and then angry. "Goddammit. That ain't so bad. You still coulda run."

"It hurts, some," Tommy said, keeping his voice factual. "Figured it'd be better to rest it until it's not so sore."

"Hmm," Pop said, and Tommy sat back down. "I'll consider it. Well, now, Mary Frances, what you been doing today?"

Mom looked panicked for just a second. "Just my usual, Paddy. Around the house mostly."

"And where were you around 1:00 this afternoon?" Pop said, in a voice that was part sweet and part acid, like he already knew where Mom had been.

"I… I went out – " Mom coughed. "Excuse me. I went out with Mrs. Leahy. She wanted some company going to the store to pick out a birthday gift for her daughter. We were back by two."

"Hmm," Pop said again, and drank half of his Iron City beer down. "Mrs. Leahy, huh? Not the dry-cleaner's you was talkin' about the other day? I had a break time and I called home to see if you'd get me some more of that headache medicine, but you weren't home."

"No, Paddy," Mom said, sounding more sure of herself this time. "No, I didn't go to the dry-cleaner's. Call her and ask her if you like."

"I know good an' well she'd lie for you if you asked," Pop said.

Tommy felt himself getting small in the chair, wanting to leave the room and afraid of what would happen if he did. Mom caught his eye. "If you're about done, Tommy, you can go on up and finish that homework now." He shook his head and ate more chicken, watching them.

Pop pointed at Mom. "Where'd you go, Mary Frances?"

"That Burlington Coat Factory place," Mom replied promptly, and Tommy suddenly understood that she and Mrs. Leahy had set up a cover story. "On 6th Avenue downtown. She got Katie – you remember Katie, don't you? She's grown and married, off in Cleveland now – got her a nice new comforter for a queen size bed. Pretty thing, all yellows and blues."

Pop finished the rest of his beer and jiggled the empty bottle at Mom, his way of asking for another. "I'll get it," Tommy said. "I'm closer to the kitchen." He brought in another bottle.

"Looks like if I weren't around, the whole lot a' ya would just go straight to pieces," Pop said. "Tommy di'n't train today, Brendan's off runnin' round with that little girl, and my wife can't keep her ass at home."

Tommy swallowed. Pop talking that way meant he had a short fuse tonight. Not for the first time, he wished for Brendan to be home, to help back him up.

"Don't be that way, Paddy," Mom said. "You know I have to leave the house every now and then. Otherwise, we'd starve." Her voice was light, but Tommy could tell it was not going to defuse Pop tonight. Maybe, though, maybe Pop might go back out.

"Hmm," Pop said once more, and drank down the rest of his beer, leaving chicken and carrots on his plate. Tommy couldn't remember the last time Pop did that. He was getting a nervous feeling in his stomach… if Pop was this angry and he wasn't yelling yet, it was going to be very bad when he did start.

Now it was after seven, and there was probably a spring training game on TV – if Tommy turned it on, maybe Pop would just sit in his chair and watch and unwind. He went in there from the kitchen and flipped on the set, finding the Pirates' Florida lineup pretty easily. "Too much noise," Pop grumbled from the dining room, so Tommy turned the sound way down but left the set on. Motion drew the eye, he knew that. It was a technique he sometimes used on the mat, to distract an opponent from what was really going on.

He went back into the kitchen and helped Mom clean up. Pop took his beer into the living room and turned the sound up just a tad on the TV, settling into his chair. Tommy put his forehead over on Mom's shoulder and prayed, very fast, for the Blessed Virgin to look out for them tonight. When the kitchen was clean and Mom was wiping down the dining table, Tommy was just coming into the living room when the phone rang.

Pop reached for it. He had a glass of whiskey sitting on the lamp table next to him; Tommy had missed hearing him pour it at some point, probably when he was rinsing out the roaster pan. "Hello?" he said. 'Oh, hey there, Coach. You doin' all right?" Tommy stopped, frozen.

He'd never thought of this possibility.

"I see. No, I didn't hear 'bout that." Pop settled himself more comfortably in the chair. "Is that right? When was this?" As he listened, his gaze swiveled, slow and inexorable, toward Tommy, as if Pop's eyes were a gun turret and Tommy the target. He stared at Tommy, listening, and Tommy could hear Coach Moore's friendly-concerned voice coming out of the earpiece where Pop was holding it only loosely to his ear. But Tommy couldn't move.

Mom came into the living room, curious, and Tommy saw Pop's gaze swivel from Tommy to Mom and lock there. "This afternoon, huh? Right after lunch, I see. No, nobody told me anything about it." Mom froze, too. "Looks like I'm gonna hafta twist some arms around here to get to the truth."

Coach Moore said something else into the phone, something that sounded sort of conciliatory, something like,_ it's not that bad_. Tommy didn't hear any more, because Pop pressed the earpiece to his ear. He swigged back all the whiskey in his glass, keeping his eyes on Mom. "Not that big a deal, huh?" Coach Moore kept talking, apparently, because Pop was silent for the space of a minute or so. "Well, I thank you for callin' me, Barry, I hadn't heard. I appreciate that… oh, I won't. You too. Bye."

Pop hung up the phone, placing the handset in the cradle carefully. And then he looked up at Mom and Tommy, standing frozen like terrified deer. "When was you gonna tell me about Tommy gettin' in trouble at school?" he asked, very softly.

"I – I didn't wanna upset you, Paddy," Mom said. Her voice was calm, but her hands were wrapped around each other and she was worrying at her wedding rings with the fingers of her right hand. "I figured you had enough to deal with, you didn't need to be bothered with what was really just a little conversation between me and a few people at the school. Figured I could get that out of the way for you, you're plenty busy."

"It's not so much that," Pop said, and he stood up slow. "It's not so much that."

"Go upstairs, Tommy," Mom said.

Pop swiveled his gun-turret eyes to Tommy. "No. I hear you had your hands all over a girl in the hall today, huh?"

Even though it was true, even though he'd already heard it described like that twice by other people today, Tommy still couldn't help the wave of embarrassment sweeping over him. His ears went hot red. "We were just kissin'."

"With hands." Pop raised his eyebrows. Tommy nodded, shamefaced. "Well. Looks like you take after your old man after all." Pop's voice was grimly, rudely, pleased. "Get it while you can. Because it ain't free, boy. Have to pay for it later."

How Pop could say things like that in front of his wife, Tommy did not understand. Mom's own embarrassment hurt him, too, her red flush and her hands twisting together.

"I know I shouldn't have," Tommy said. "I know I shoulda been responsible, I won't do it again."

"No, you won't," Pop said. Tommy shivered. "You ain't the student Brendan is, you need all the help you can get, and you better not be jeopardizin' your educational chances with pussy. You get me? Pussy is a reward, not a distraction."

"_Paddy,_" Mom reproached, and Pop turned back to her like a striking snake.

"Well, Miz Liar, how are your big-girl panties not burnin' up in flames right now?" Pop stepped close to Mom. Tommy wanted to get between them, and he didn't, too. "Tell me that, Mary Fran. You sat there and you lied to me flat out. Now how can I trust you? Huh?" Mom opened her mouth, but Pop spoke first. "_Who. Is. He._"

"Who is who?"

"Who are you fucking, Mary Frances? I know you been lyin' to me. Who are you steppin' out with behind my back?"

_Not this again,_ Tommy thought. _Oh God, no, he'll never believe her._

"Go upstairs, Tommy," Mom said again, fiercely.

He went, legs shaking, thinking of some way to stop it. Go out the window? Go to Mrs. Leahy's house and call the cops? Go back down, out the front door? Pop's voice went quiet and vicious, nothing he could distinguish, and then Mom yelped in pain, like a kicked dog. He'd just started to open the window when the first scream came, opening a riptide of terror in his veins. _Brendan's not here. Brendan would know what to do._

He went pounding down the stairs, heart pounding. There was a clear path to the phone – he could dial 911 and just let the dispatcher listen to what was going on. But they asked questions, didn't they? And there was no other phone in the house. Pop would hear.

Mrs. Leahy's, he could go there… it was just that, after years of hiding, not telling, keeping secret, the idea of letting anyone else in on it felt like betrayal.

But Pop was punching Mom in the back, four hard rights just off the line of her spine, _one two three four_, and then he rolled her over with his knee. "Who is he?" Pop was roaring, punching Mom in the breasts, in the stomach, on the thighs, nowhere it would show to the neighbors or the priest. "Who you sharin' that pussy of yours with?" Mom couldn't answer, she was crying so hard, choking. Her hair was a messy cloud.

_I cannot watch this happen. Not again. I can't._

He could run. Or he could fight. "Let go of her!" Tommy heard himself yell, and he pulled at Pop's shoulder.

Even on his knees, Pop was big and powerful. He reached back with one hand and shoved Tommy away, sending him skidding on his ass across the carpet, where the pain in his hip made tears roll out of his eyes. Pop grabbed a hank of Mom's hair and yanked. "You see that? You poisoned my son's mind towards me, you bitch, you whore, you can't tell me the truth. You don't even love me anymore! I'm not enough for you!"

"No, Paddy, no," Mom pleaded, crying. "No, no, Paddy, please no, please no, no…"

"Lyin' whore!" Pop shouted right into her face, and even though he sounded like he was crying too, he was scaring the fucking hell out of Tommy, Pop _this_ crazy, _oh shit Brendan help please. _ Then Pop pulled his hand back and punched Mom right in the face, a big heavy right hand blow the guys at Fitzy's would've cheered him for, if he was in the ring with another boxer. Droplets of blood went flying. He hit her again, in the eye this time, and Mom's head flopped back, limp.

_Oh God he's gonna kill her, he might actually kill her._

There was no stopping Tommy then. Nothing mattered except saving Mom, nothing. He went fast across the carpet, leaping onto Pop's back and holding him around the head so he couldn't see, messing up his balance. He knew, in the back of his mind, how much danger he was putting himself in, but he wasn't a kid anymore, and he couldn't let his mother, who was smaller than him, protect him anymore when she was the one who needed protecting.

Because this was wrong.

All that was in the back of his mind. In the front were all the wrestling tricks he knew, the ones for taking down a bigger opponent. The tricks for incapacitating a guy, he thought of those. He could gouge Pop's eye out.

Then he found that he really couldn't, the idea of Pop with one eye turned his stomach enough he couldn't go through with it. He had to settle for a chokehold, but he didn't get enough leverage, and Pop shoved him away. Next he'd be trying pussy tricks like pulling at Pop's hair, but hey, whatever worked, because he _could not let Pop kill Mom_. He hit Pop anywhere he could, making his fists hard and putting all his weight behind them, but it was like they didn't even land for all the change they made, and then Pop flung Tommy backward off him. He turned away from Mom and toward Tommy, and Tommy had never been so scared in his whole life, never. "You interfering little _shit,_" Pop snarled.

Pop stood up and came toward him like a bear, growling, and Tommy braced himself. The wall was behind him and that scared him; in a blink he imagined his own blood and brains smeared across the walls, and he ducked to the side.

Pop stopped him.

Pop stopped him and knocked him into the wall, and Pop hit him in the face too. Not the jaw, and not the nose; these were heavy, open-hand slaps that expressed Pop's outright contempt for him. The first one bruised his cheek, the second one opened up his lip, the third hit his temple and dazed him. Then Pop knocked him over and was kicking him in the belly and the side, kicking hard enough that Tommy was having trouble breathing. Mom was not screaming; she was lying motionless on the floor, and Tommy could not scream enough that the neighbors would call 911, because he couldn't get enough air, it hurt to suck in a breath. Pop kicked him five times, his foot thudding hard into Tommy, and Tommy, stunned and helpless, raised his hands up in a "Surrender" gesture. Tears kept on dripping out of his eyes, not like he was sobbing but like his eyes had seen enough and they just wanted to hang a veil over the sight of something so horribly ugly.

Pop just stood there breathing heavy. Then he put his hands on his hips. "Little shit. You're messin' with a man now, _boy,_" he growled out in that gravel voice, "and don't you forget it. Who's your daddy?" He leaned over and put his face right up to Tommy's. "_I am._ I am your big fuckin' daddy, boy, and you better keep that in mind."

Tommy, still fighting for breath, moved his head down and up once, and then Pop was gone, letting the door slam.

_Thank you, Jesus, _he thought as coherently as he could, and then he let his head sag back on the carpet for a second before scuttling over to Mom, hissing at the pain in his ribs. Mom looked passed out, but as Tommy was looking at her, she opened her eyes, and the pupils were the same. "Talk to me, Mom," he said, through his busted lip, wiping gently at the blood on her face. "Please, just say something."

She spoke, softly. "Forgive me, Tommy. Forgive me."

"Of course," he said, hardly realizing what words were coming out of his mouth. "You didn't do nothin' wrong, Mom, are you okay?" Suddenly the tears caught up with him, and he sobbed once, but that hurt his ribs like hell, so he tried to stop. "Oh, Mom… I thought he was gonna kill you…"

"I think…" Mom said, and sighed. "I think we need a new plan."

He lay down next to her and just let the tears fall, because it hurt so bad. He had no idea what time it was. Before 8, he thought. And Brendan would not be home until midnight. _Oh God, oh God, please help us._

* * *

Friday evening, in the Point Breeze neighborhood, in a small but nicely-kept apartment, Lora Keagy and her daughter Christine had a heart-to-heart over the dinner table – about school, and boys, and why spending part of your lunch period kissing a boy was probably not a great investment in your education, and how even though Christine hadn't seen her father in nearly fifteen years, since the divorce, male attention should not be Christine's great purpose in life.

Christine, who had cared about the boy attention mostly as a way to impress her girl friends, but also for the excitement, agreed in principle. It was stupid, and she didn't have to have a boys around, but – "This one's different, Mom," Christine said. "He's sweet. I mean, sure, I kind of pulled him in by asking if he wanted to kiss me and that's how it started, but… he's really nice. And I see how his brother treats his girlfriend, so sweet to her. I'm just getting to know Tommy, but I like him."

Ms. Keagy kissed her daughter's cheek. "You be careful. Don't get too involved before you do know him better."

When Christine went to bed, though, her thoughts kept turning back to him: the stormy blue-green of his eyes, the pillow-softness of his lips, the swoop and plummet of her stomach while he'd been kissing her. The way he seemed to care about her feelings. The sturdy shape of him under his jeans… Christine shivered. She'd seen plenty of dick, sure, in makeout sessions at parties or under the bleachers when nobody was around, and she'd gone down on it plenty of times, but she was still a virgin. Nobody had managed, so far, to get her to take her panties off. But the more she thought about kissing Tommy Conlon, the more she thought about his hands gentle on her breasts and his mouth hot and exciting on her neck, the more she wanted to… you know… kiss him down there. Thinking of doing that, she slipped a hand under her panties and stroked herself until she came. And sleep arrived, friendly and welcoming.

* * *

At The Dark Horse, Paddy Conlon caught the bartender's eye and pointed to his empty glass. The barkeep swung his chin up in acknowledgement, finished uncapping a round of beers, and wiped his hands before coming down the bar with the Jameson's bottle. "Another double?" he asked. Paddy nodded.

His hands hurt. And there was a jangly feeling in his leg, the nerve endings jumping. He didn't want to think about what had happened at the house.

So he wouldn't think about it. He'd be here forgetting, for as long as it took. If he had to go with a girl to forget some more, he'd do that. Forget and forget and forget, keep forgetting, stop anything that stopped him forgetting.

Everything had gone sour, there in Vietnam, that was the start of it. No, maybe farther back, when his father had gone out drinking with some buddies and fallen into the Allegheny, and when they'd found his body it had been swollen and waterlogged. Paddy had been seventeen, then. When he was eighteen, he enlisted, and after Parris Island and six weeks of beaches and beer and the prettiest Vietnamese girls you ever saw, it all went straight to hell. First the little village, that was bad enough, and then two weeks after, the sergeant with his guts hanging out. Then when Billy Deets and Sam and Paddy and Coutts, whom they called Cooter –

No. He would forget it this time. It never happened.

Mama and Lucy, dead in a wreck on Negley Avenue. He'd forget that, too.

And then he'd met Mary Frances, sweet and shy and affectionate, eager when he kissed her, happy to be with him. He'd been a good man then, for her. If he could just go back to those early days…

But then the babies had come. He was _proud_ of them, boys to carry on his name and his father's, boys for him to grow up into men – but growing up took time and until then, they were babies. Babies demanded money, money and security and everything that could only come from Paddy's sweat. Babies made mess and noise, they needed tons of stuff and took all his wife's time and sometimes when they woke crying in the night he couldn't remember where he was, he thought of being in-country and scared shitless every second, and things got harder.

So he drank to forget. And he drank to forget the damage he did when he was drinking. He felt sick, thinking of the damage he'd done tonight, Mary Frances' pretty mouth busting open under his hand and the feeling in his foot after he'd kicked Tommy.

Jesus, _Tommy._ Oh God. No, Paddy would forget that. He had to. Couldn't live with himself, otherwise.

Paddy called for another double. The bartender gave him a Look, but poured anyway; Paddy knew he'd keep pouring so long as Paddy was conscious and still had green in his wallet. A woman came and sat on the stool next to him, giving him the eye. She might just want another drink, but she might want a man, too, someone she could take home with her and forget things with. He turned to her. "Come here often, sweetheart?"

* * *

And at Deanna Miles' house, after her sick mother had gone to sleep with a fat dose of Nyquil to treat her virus symptoms, after her father had been called in to the hospital to perform an emergency surgery that would take six hours, the birthday party had gone a little out of control. Eric Massey brought a fifth of vodka, lifted off his older brother, and spiked the fruit punch. Somebody suggested Spin the Bottle, as a joke – that would have been fine four years ago, but they were juniors now, and it was silly. So then it wound up being dancing to music that wasn't too loud, so they wouldn't wake up Mrs. Miles, and the dancing turned into dirty dancing, and that turned into making out anywhere.

Tess Mahoney, who thought the punch tasted funny but still good, had two cups. She didn't want to kiss Brendan with everybody watching and calling them lovebirds, so she took Brendan by the hand and led him upstairs, to the funny little attic room that was Deanna's brother's room when he was home from college. She locked the door, and they killed the lights once they could tell where things were in the room. She stood still until her eyes got used to the dark, and she could see the shape of Brendan standing in the middle of the floor, just his ordinary self which was so singular and beautiful and sweet that she couldn't imagine ever wanting anyone else. He didn't have to be fancy for her – or rich, or the best athlete, or the smartest boy in school. All he had to be was Brendan, and she was so intoxicated with him that two cups of vodka punch didn't even faze her.

"Come here," she said, and he came to her. Put his arms around her, tipped her head up, and kissed her. It was sweet as ever, sweeter maybe because they didn't have to pull away and be company-polite and proper. She felt free and exhilarated, like she was on a roller coaster enjoying the ride, and she felt safe, because this was Deanna's house. She kissed Brendan until she could feel him trembling and arching his body away from her, like if their stomachs touched something bad would happen. But it couldn't, because they were both nice kids, good Catholic kids, and they would be responsible and not get themselves in trouble. So she pulled him close again and kissed him more.

"Tess," he whispered urgently into her mouth, pushing her hips away from him again. "Don't."

But it felt so nice. Like the secret magic niceness of a warm bath and a backrub from her mother, except more exciting because he was a boy, he was _Brendan_, and if he was close she couldn't not kiss him. So she pulled him close again, and this time she felt It, a firm rod thing pressed up against her belly. She knew what it was, of course, and although it was a little frightening how close they were, it was sort of beautiful instead of raunchy and gross. It was just his body. And there was nothing wrong with bodies, not in themselves. There was a time and place and situation for bodies, and even for them to touch. Now felt right.

They kept kissing, and somehow his hand was on her breast, and it felt good. He kissed her neck, her collarbones, the top of her chest, and the oddest thing happened: she wanted him to keep going, down and down, kissing all of her. She made a sighing noise and pulled him backward to Edward Miles' bed so she wouldn't have to rely on her increasingly shaky legs to hold her up.

Tess had paid both too much attention and not enough to any instruction concerning sex – too much because she knew what could happen if the girl gave in to unholy desires. Lives could be ruined, babies started, mortal sin contracted. God unhappy. She'd said to herself, _I will never_, and she meant it.

But she'd paid far too little attention to sex ed in school, figuring that she already knew what made babies, and by the time she needed any information on sex, she'd already be married and by then it wouldn't even matter.

So by the time she woke up to the fact that she had her tank top off, and his hands were fumbling with the front hook of her bra, she _wanted_ the bra gone. And didn't know what to do with her own want, except let things happen, because they made the ache feel better. Trouble was, once his mouth was on her breasts, on her nipples, all that did was make her want other things. She wanted to touch him, so she did, scooting his shirt out of the way and feeling the firmness of his chest, the small patch of hair that grew in the center and trailed in a line down his stomach.

She wanted to keep touching, so she did.

Some time later, he was whispering, "Are you sure it's okay?" and she couldn't answer, was simply doing it for him, taking her panties off and moving his hand to where it would feel good. She gave one thought to these desires being unholy, and then she was done with that, it felt so lovely and wonderful, like the sun coming up in heat and light and beauty. She wanted him to feel that too, so she reached. How incredible It was, rigid hard under the softest, most delicate skin, and how oddly frustrated she felt touching it – him – like there was an itch she couldn't scratch because she couldn't quite reach. Wasn't even sure exactly where it was, just that she needed something, desperately.

Her whole body poised itself on the top of a cliff, straining into the wind, _needing_, and she stopped caring about what she should do or he should or stupid things like that, and when she tried to find the itchy place herself she was surprised at how slick everything was, how much wetness was coming from her own self. And she still _needed_. It seemed to occur to both of them that the need would be satisfied by the feeling of him all hard under silky skin, rubbing over her slick softness, so they did that. When she fell off the cliff she fell hard, backwards into heart-stopping kaleidoscopic starbursts. It was so good that she pulled at him by his shoulder, pulled him closer to her, and he was suddenly inside her.

It did not hurt.

It did not last long.

He moved a little, gasping, and she ran her tongue up his throat to kiss him. And then it was over, his groan into her neck and an odd sort of pulsing heat inside. She was exhilarated.

Even so, they both went to sleep for just a few minutes. She woke when she couldn't breathe anymore, and shoved at his heavy shoulder. He rolled to his side, and she rolled with him so they could stay face to face.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you," she said back. It was true. She'd loved him before, but now they were part of each other. They belonged to each other.

His hand moved in the dark, and settled on her head, smoothing her hair back and touching her cheek. "We shouldn't have done that," he said, soberly. "We should have waited."

"We should have," she agreed. "But I'm not sorry."

"I'm not either." He kissed her forehead. "I won't ditch you. I won't talk about you in the locker rooms or stupid shit like that, you know I won't."

"If you were the kind of boy to talk about girls like that I wouldn't have loved you," she told him.

"You're mine," he said, very softly. "I won't leave you." They stayed cuddling on the bed until he checked his watch and made an unhappy noise. "If I don't go now I won't catch the bus and be home when I said I would."

"You always do what you say you will," she told him. "It's one of the things I love about you."

He laughed a little. "You're okay?"

"I feel wonderful," she said. "Kiss me before you go."

He kissed her – soft and sweet and lingering – and then had to rush into his clothes and shoes, to make it to the bus stop. She looked out the window, standing there naked and not ashamed of anything, to see him running down the street, and her heart went with him.

* * *

Brendan, his head swirling with the sweetness and the excitement of his evening, and his new understanding that his life had just changed irrevocably, was unreasonably annoyed to find his front door locked and the spare key not in its usual hiding place, in the dirt under the bushes near the front door. He pounded on the door twice, and said, "Hey, it's Brendan – let me in."

His voice was soft, but angry, because they'd known he was going out. And the car was gone, so Pop was out too, and the door should have been unlocked. "Where's the key?"

The door opened, and it was his brother standing there with his Little League aluminum bat, his face beat all to hell. Tommy was holding himself in a way that told Brendan he was hurt, really hurt. "Fuck you," Tommy said through a torn lip. "Fuck you for being gone when we needed you, you selfish bastard."

All the strength went out of Brendan's legs, and he went to his knees there in the living room. "Mom?" he whispered.

"In bed, asleep. I checked her. I'm pretty sure she's not concussed."

_Concussed, oh Jesus no, what happened with Pop?_

Brendan shuddered. "You okay?"

Tommy sagged to his knees too, but he reached up and shut the door, groaning, and then locked it.

"What is it, where are you hurt?" Brendan asked.

"Jesus Christ, where am I_ not _hurt?" Tommy said, and tears spurted out of his eyes. "_Goddammit. _My ribs. My face. He _kicked _me, Brendan." He sobbed once, like a little kid, and simultaneously groaned, and Brendan finally got how much pain Tommy was really in. "I thought he was gonna kill her this time."

"Oh my God," Brendan found himself whispering over and over, as he went to his mother's bedroom to check on her, and as he helped Tommy change out of his blood-stained shirt, Brendan's shirt, and jeans into sleep clothes. He helped Tommy brush his teeth and lie on the couch with as many ice packs as he could stand on his ribs; he brought both Tommy's pillow and his own down for Tommy to use on the couch because Tommy said he couldn't face the stairs. He brought down his own Boy Scout sleeping bag and crashed on the floor there, holding the baseball bat, just in case.

Pop did not come home that night. And in the cold light of morning, listening to his little brother moan in pain in his sleep, Brendan Conlon had the sense of everything good slipping away.


	7. Chapter 7: Making More Plans

**Fight or Flight Ch 7**

**A/N: Sorry I made you guys wait so long for this. This is really just a filler chapter, where the idea of leaving Pittsburgh first comes up, and it was surprisingly difficult to write (probably because Nothing Really Happpppennnnns). Hope I'll be back on track with more updates on a timely basis. Thanks to Nik and Wynter, as usual. Mwah.**

**Please, read and review. Thanks!**

Tommy swam into a gigantic throbbing ball of pain all around him. He made a noise of protest and turned his face to the wall, except it wasn't the wall. It was scratchy and it smelled like Pop, and he half woke, enough to realize that it was the back of the couch, and it felt terrible against his face. He tried turning back the other way, and that set up a clanging alarm all down his right side, a white-hot stripe of fire that hurt worse when he tried to breathe in. He groaned, and then Brendan was there with a cool hand on his cheek.

"Hey. Hey, Tom. Feelin' bad?"

He couldn't even reply, because breathing hurt. He made a grunting noise instead.

"Roll the other way," Brendan said. "Toward me. That's it, yeah. I think your ribs are bruised up pretty bad."

Tommy got his eyes open after he turned onto his sore side. Brendan was right, it hurt less to breathe this way. "Hey," he said weakly. "Mom?"

"Resting. I stayed up with her, made her wake up and talk to me every hour so I could make sure she wasn't bleeding in her brain or anything. Her face is pretty swollen up."

"Pop?"

"Pop's not home yet. I left the door locked so he can't bust in on us unprepared. I swear to God, Tommy, if he comes in plastered…" Brendan shook his head. "I haven't seen her hurt this bad since… God. Since we were little. Since we spent that week in the women's shelter, you remember that?"

"No." It hurt to take enough breath to talk. And his hip, that was aching too. It made him think of his mother's bruises, and that made him feel sick. He hadn't been able to protect her.

"You don't? You were, like, five. And I was almost seven." Brendan sat down next to the couch. "Really, you don't remember that?"

A vague memory came back to him. "Yellow cinderblock? And a whole lot of kids. Bunk beds lined up along the walls."

"Yeah, that's it. I was scared. And homesick. But you were okay as long as you could share a bunk bed with me." Brendan reached over and brushed some of the hair off Tommy's forehead with his fingers. "We were there a week and Mom was making arrangements to move us to a different school, and she came back here to get our papers and stuff, you know, birth certificates and vaccination records. And Pop was here." He sighed. "I don't know what he said to her, but she moved us back home. And after that we had a couple of good years before he went off on her again."

"He took us to the beach that summer," Tommy remembered. He had a vivid flash of walking near the ocean, holding Pop's hand. Brendan holding Pop's other hand. It was a good memory, so good it hurt to think about. His eyes stung at the back. Pop's hand had been so big, and so gentle, then.

"Yeah, to Atlantic City. And that fall, we started wrestling."

Tommy remembered that, too – how much fun it was. The tumbling stuff, and the strengthening exercises, the balance drills. All of it. He'd loved it all, even before they moved on to learning takedown methods, and it only got better from there. He still loved it. Winning was good; winning made Pop happy and made Tommy feel like a stud, and winning was a good reward for the hard work. Doing something you were good at, that was super fun. But there was a kind of beauty to it, too, the beauty of having your body do exactly what you wanted it to do.

"Be right back," Brendan said. He hopped up and came back with juice and Advil, and a soft cold pack thing, different from the usual ice packs in that it was flexible. "You ever used this? I found two of 'em at the back of the freezer."

Tommy shook his head, but took the pills and allowed Brendan to shove the cold pack under his ribs. He started to close his eyes again, but had a sudden thought. "Mom should have this."

"She has the other soft one, and all the other cold packs. I should probably get you a package of frozen peas for your face – that's about all that's left for ice." Brendan bounced his hands on his thighs, and Tommy could see him working himself up to say something. "I think… I think I should get her to the doctor. And you too, those ribs worry me. I shoulda called the rescue squad last night."

"No," Tommy said. That had been drilled into all their heads, _Don't call the ambulance. Too expensive. Too nosy. Our business, nobody else's._ And,_ If you tell anybody, I'll make you sorry._ Tommy did not want to think about what would happen when Pop got home and found out Brendan had done it. But maybe Brendan was right, Mom did need help. It was just… the questions that would come. Tommy couldn't go. If the ambulance came, Tommy couldn't be anywhere in sight. That meant the stairs, and then back down if he needed to pee. Just the thought of it was making him exhausted.

"Maybe one of the neighbors…" Brendan started, and then shook his head. That was just as bad.

"Mrs. Leahy," Tommy said, remembering yesterday afternoon. "She'd help." Brendan shot him a skeptical look, so he sat up just a little, feeling more alert. "She knows already. I don't know how much. But she knows something, and I think she's on Mom's side."

"Tell me. What she said." Brendan's eyes were intense, so Tommy repeated what Mrs. Leahy had said in the car yesterday, about Mom either getting out or shooting Pop. Brendan laughed, one little snort of surprise. "Like she'd hurt anybody." He shook his head. "There's an Urgent Care open today, if she can just get to the street and into a car. You might have to help."

Tommy shrugged a little, and then regretted it. "Okay."

"You should go too."

"No." If Mom went by herself, she could say she fell. If he went – well, they'd all know then. Unless they said car wreck. But the police got involved with car wrecks, didn't they? So. He couldn't go. And his ribs didn't feel broken. He could breathe. It hurt like hell, but he could do it, so his lung wasn't collapsed. And his face… well, he'd had bruises on his face before from wrestling. It happened. He listed his own hurts: bruised face, split lip, bruised hip, bruised ribs. Well then. Bruises would heal. He'd be fine.

He wouldn't think about the fear.

"Tell me about Mom," he said, when Brendan didn't argue about Tommy going to the doctor.

Brendan sighed, and spoke very softly. "Her eye's pretty bad – the eyebrow has a cut through it, maybe where he hit her so hard, I don't know. I don't think the nose is broken but it's swollen up and it's bled a lot. Her lip is split open like yours. And she has bruises all over her stomach, from here to here," Brendan indicated his chest, then down to his thighs. "And her back. Bruises there too. What's worrying me is that I think she's concussed. And she hasn't been to the bathroom, either, so I don't know if she's got bleeding inside or not. I'm pretty sure he got a good one in on her kidney."

_Oh God._ Tommy saw it again on that backs of his eyelids, Pop's fists coming down like hammers on Mom. He shuddered. "I think he might kill her next time," Tommy said. He hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't meant even to _think_ it, but there it was.

Brendan gave him a quelling look, and then went into the kitchen for the frozen peas. When he came back and put the package on Tommy's face, he leaned down close. "Don't say it so loud. She's in there helpless and I don't want her scared. But… yeah. I think you're right. We have to – Tommy, we should leave."

_Leave._

That thought sent a bolt of fear right through his stomach, more sickening than the ache of his bruises, and he shuddered again. Some part of him wanted to go, to get away,_ now now now_. Get away from the constant walking on eggshells, the constant not-being-good-enough… get away from the never-ending worry of having to be perfect all the time. It sounded pretty good. Mom's face never getting bruised again. Mom starting to laugh again, the way she had when they were little kids, big whoops of laughter like she'd laughed the time that he and Brendan had tried to sled down the stairs on their pillows.

But _leave?_ Leave this house, where he'd always lived, where his and Brendan's changing heights were marked in pencil near the doorframe in the kitchen? Leave this house where he could tell what time it was just by the way the sunlight hit the room? Where he knew all the smells, of cooking and Mom's perfume and her occasional cigarettes, and the smell of his and Brendan's sweaty clothes. Furniture polish and the smell of Pop's work clothes and his whiskey. Leave the neighborhood, maybe even leave Pittsburgh…

It was exactly as exciting as it was frightening, _exactly_ as much.

"So – where would we go?" Brendan would have a plan, sooner or later, and it would make sense. He trusted Brendan to do that.

Brendan shook his head again. "I don't know. Someplace we could get to without spending a lot of money, someplace we could disappear. A big city."

That chill went down Tommy's spine again.

"I'm gonna go call Mrs. Leahy," Brendan said. Tommy, exhausted, just lay on the couch and drifted for a few minutes, hearing his brother's voice low and apologetic on the phone. When Brendan hung up, he dashed upstairs and then came down wearing fresh clothes. He looked over at Tommy and said, "God. Go to _sleep, _Tom. Those ribs aren't gonna fix themselves unless you get some rest."

"I don't hafta be sleepin' all the time," Tommy said, resentfully. Brendan was awesome for taking care of things, but sometimes he really hated having to lean on his brother so much. And sometimes Brendan was just flat bossy. Like now.

He'd sunk into a half-daze anyway when the knock on the door came, followed by a cheerful voice. "Boys? Mary Fran? It's Doris Leahy." Tommy's first inclination was to sit up, get up, go hide… but it was already too late. Brendan opened the door for her. "My goodness, son, you look positively sick with worry. So she – fell, did she?" Mrs. Leahy's voice had gone grim and skeptical.

And then she turned and saw Tommy on the couch and her whole dumpy old-lady body seized up and got angry. Funny how it showed, even on an old person, what _Mad_ looked like. Her shoulders went up and she leaned forward, her lips pinched together and her eyebrows down. She breathed in through her nose, loud, and then she sighed. "Sweet Mother Mary, lookit you, poor baby."

While Tommy despised being called a poor baby, there was something sort of… nice about it, having Mrs. Leahy on his side.

"If, if you don't mind," Brendan was saying hesitantly, "would you help Mom get dressed? I just put the blanket over her last night and she took off her pants under it, but I think it hurt her. And I don't want to – you know – intrude on her privacy."

"Will do," Mrs. Leahy said, but she didn't move for a second. Then she came over and put her chilly, wrinkled, old lady hand very gently on Tommy's cheek where it was bruised. "Which way?" she said to Brendan, and he pointed to Mom's door. She went there, knocking at the doorframe and calling, "Mary Frances?" softly before going inside.

Brendan came back. "You want somethin' to eat?"

"Nah." Brendan sat on the floor and leaned his head over onto the couch, next to Tommy. Tommy moved his shoulder just a little, even though it hurt, so he could be touching Brendan. They didn't talk, and Tommy started drifting again, not quite asleep. Some time later, he couldn't have said how long, there was Mrs. Leahy's voice, encouraging Mom, and they came into the living room.

Mom looked older than Mrs. Leahy, hobbling along like her legs would barely hold her up. Tears came to Tommy's eyes.

Brendan got up and held on to Mom's other side, and together he and Mrs. Leahy got Mom out of the house and down to the car. Tommy sighed and closed his eyes, vaguely wondering if Brendan was coming back or whether he should get up and lock the door, but then Brendan came back into the house and locked the door without Tommy saying anything.

"Thought you was goin' with Mom," Tommy said, sleepily.

"Nope, she said she only wanted Mrs. Leahy. You sure you don't want anything?"

"I said no." Tommy was so tired.

"Well, you sleep then. Just... God, Tommy. I'm so sorry about this," Brendan muttered, scuffing a foot on the carpet. "Hey. You still have that atlas thing up in our room? You know, from when they used to do the Geography Bee in middle school?"

"Thought that was yours anyway," Tommy told him, though he remembered very well sitting up with the atlas and studying it, hoping to do as well with geography as Brendan had done with all his academic competition things. He did okay with land masses and terrain and stuff, but the names - and particularly the spellings of geographical names - had just done him in. After seventh grade he hadn't bothered to look at the atlas much, anyway. "But it's upstairs in the footlocker thing, you know, under the lamp."

"Okay," Brendan said amiably and went upstairs. When Brendan came back downstairs, it was later. Tommy wasn't sure how much later, because it was a cloudy morning, but the sun was coming in through the crack in the curtains at a different angle, and his stomach was starting to growl. "You hungry now?" Brendan asked. "Soup?"

"Sure. And toast?" Tommy asked hopefully.

"Absolutely. Or grilled cheese?"

"Grilled cheese. With ham if we got it."

"We got deli ham. You can chew that?" Brendan said, squinting at him.

"Sure. Jaw's fine." His lip wasn't, and the inside of his mouth hurt where it had banged against his teeth, but he could chew something that soft. "And thanks."

"Yeah," Brendan said, and went into the kitchen. Tommy was still wondering about the atlas when Brendan came back and said, "Look, man, I think you gotta sit up to eat this or you'll have it all down your front, and you'll hafta change your shirt. Which, I'm guessing, would hurt like a bitch. So." He helped Tommy sit up slow and easy, shoving a couple of cushions behind him and near his ribs, but it _did_ still hurt like a bitch.

Brendan set up a TV tray and put his plate on it. While he was eating - the warm soup stinging the raw places on his lip and the inside of his cheek, but tasting good all the same - Brendan ate, too, and scribbled in one of his notebooks. Line after line he wrote, biting the end of the pen every few minutes and then writing something else. When Tommy had finished eating and his head wasn't quite so fuzzy from hunger, he managed to ask. "So what was that all about with the atlas?"

Brendan looked sidelong at him. "Wanted to see what cities were within a 500 mile radius of here. There's a lot of 'em, did you know?" Tommy shook his head. "New York, of course. Albany and everything between here and there. Louisville. Cleveland. Chicago, even! Or we could go south - like Baltimore. Or Richmond. Bet it's warmer in Virginia."

"Bet it's not," Tommy said, fighting down chills at the idea of living somewhere else. Brendan gave him a raised-eyebrows look, but he shut up. After lunch, Brendan helped him get off the couch and into the bathroom, which was when he noticed that he was walking like an old guy five times his age. Maybe old people walked bent over because they hurt.

It sucked.

Nobody came to the door. Pop didn't come home, and it took Mom and Mrs. Leahy forever to get back from the Urgent Care place. But when they did, Mrs. Leahy and Brendan helped her into bed. Tommy could hear them in the bedroom with Mom, adjusting her in the bed and helping her get comfortable. He could hear Mrs. Leahy's voice soft as if Mom were a baby, and Brendan's voice scratchy with worry, and Mom's little stifled whimpers. Brendan came out and grabbed the ice packs out of the freezer where he'd put them when Mom left, and took them back in, and there was more rustle and fuss in there. And then Mrs. Leahy and Brendan came out and Mrs. Leahy sat down in Pop's armchair, making her old-lady noise when she sat.

"All right, boys," she said quietly. "I'll tell you what the doctor said, and then you two need to be making some plans, because Mary Frances is not really capable of doing that right now. She has a mild concussion and the doctor said she can't be wearing herself out with thinking too hard, it's bad for her. When her head stops aching, then she can be in on discussions. Besides which, they give her some pain pills and they make her a little fuzzy-headed." She looked at Brendan very levelly. "I'm sorry for it, son, because it looks like you're the only one capable of doing all the things that need doing right now. How old are you?"

"Seventeen in August," Brendan said, crossing his arms on his chest. "I can manage. Ice packs and Advil, we'll be fine."

"She's got all those bruises on her stomach, all down her front, and of course they hurt, and her poor sweet face. The other serious thing she's got is a bruised kidney, the one on the right. Where all those bruises are on the right side of her back? I don't even wanna know how she got those, 'cause if you tell me I might have to do something rash like contact the police –"

"No, don't do that," Brendan cut in hurriedly.

" – or take Mr. Leahy's woodchopping axe to _that man_ that lives here." Mrs. Leahy sounded disgusted. "I don't know what's wrong with your mother's head, letting him treat her like that. But the fact remains, she don't deserve that and neither do you. And I must say, I certainly don't understand why either Father Jerz or Father McMahon hasn't done something to help this situation instead of tellin' her that her place is with a husband that hurts her like this."

Brendan looked down. Tommy had never been privy to that information, and he felt a qualm of unease, thinking of stern Fr. Jerz or friendly Fr. McMahon, giving Mom a stern talking-to the way they did when you had something substantial to confess. He suddenly remembered that he himself had plenty to confess, but he would definitely not be lining up at the confessional this Saturday afternoon, for the first time in years.

"She had some blood in her urine, the doctor said," Mrs. Leahy told them, and both Tommy and Brendan winced. "Only thing to be done about that is rest and drink plenty of fluids, so you make sure she gets them, all right?" Brendan nodded. "Take at least a week before she'll be feeling like anything, doctor said. Best thing for her is just to rest."

She turned to Tommy. "Now, your mama said this was the first time he's ever hurt either one of you like this."

He didn't answer, tried to keep his face still. Because _yeah_, that hurt. Sure, Pop had smacked them plenty in the way of discipline - smacks on the butt for disobedience, or sometimes the belt if whatever they had done was dangerous or directly against what he'd told them to do, and he was rough sometimes - but that was true. This was the first time he'd ever actually hurt Tommy deliberately and badly, and the shame of it was almost as painful as his aching ribs.

"All right then. I'm just gonna tell you, I've seen men like this before, and it ain't gonna be the last time he hurts you. He's moved on from just her not pleasing him. And unless he gets some help, and unless you get out of his reach, it will not stop. I think you need to get out of this house, either that or get him out. I'm not sure your mother's going to go for that option, so how about you think about moving out yourselves?" Brendan opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Leahy held up a hand. "Just hear me out, honey. There's a women's shelter in town, but your mother said she had been there once years ago and she didn't think that would work. I'd sure let you move in with me if I lived any further away. Or there's my Katie, in Cleveland – she might be able to help you find a place there. It's not so far away, you know."

"Cleveland was on my list," Brendan said, his voice hoarse, and Mrs. Leahy's eyebrows went up.

"Oh?" she said.

"I think the same way you do," Brendan told her. "Tommy's not crazy about it, I don't think – but I just…" He sniffed and shook his head. "Pop's getting worse. I can't stand seein' him go after Mom anymore. I think I'd be okay, but I just can't watch him hit her again." He nodded toward Tommy. "Or him."

"Have you thought of calling the police?" Mrs. Leahy asked gently.

"No," Tommy said, urgently. "_No, _Brendan. No." Because that would, that really _would _send Pop flying off the handle.

"Well," Mrs. Leahy said, looking at him, "I don't see it stopping unless you do. Or unless you leave. Now clearly she's not goin' anywhere until she's able to get up out of the bed without pain, so you got awhile to make your plans, but I recommend you start." She stood up. "I best oughta be gettin' back to my housework, but you call me, or you run down the street and get me, if you need me. I'm not afraid to call the police on a big bully, and I'll do what I can to help. Promise now?"

"Yes, ma'am," Brendan said, and Tommy nodded too.

"I'll bring you a nice homemade chicken pot pie later," she said. "I'll add a note about how sorry I am your mama's down with the flu, in case anybody should make a fuss over what I do know or don't know." She leaned over and put that chilly old-lady hand on the bruised side of Tommy's face again, light as feathers, and said, "Brave boy. Now you all look after each other and I'll see you this evening when I bring you some dinner."

"Thank you for everything, Mrs. Leahy." Brendan opened the door for her. She reached up and patted him on the shoulder, and then she was gone.

There was silence in the house. Brendan said, "Gonna check on Mom," and went down the little hall to peek in the bedroom door. Then he was back. "Asleep. Guess the pain meds kicked in. You don't have anything you gotta do today, do you?"

"No," Tommy said, and yawned. Then he remembered, and it was like a jolt of adrenaline. "Oh. Yeah. Was supposed to go somewhere with Christine Keagy tonight, Bren, I gotta call her and tell her I can't." He couldn't keep a note of panic out of his voice. "What am I gonna tell her? I can't say I fell down the steps. I can't say that. And no way is this some little wrestling match between you and me, not when you don't have a scratch on you."

Brendan shook his head. "I don't… well, how about Mrs. Leahy's excuse? Flu? Nobody will need to see you if you have the flu. You'll be staying home from school anyway, and guess I will too, so I can take care of you."

"I'm not _sick,_" Tommy said, not arguing exactly but pointing out that he didn't have any of the corresponding symptoms.

"If it's flu nobody will come trying to look at you," Brendan said. "That's it. We'll say you have flu. We _all _have flu." He nodded once, firmly, and then picked up the phone. "I gotta call Tess anyway, so I'll get Christine Keagy's number from her and I'll let her know you're sick." Tommy glared at him. "Or you can, if you can manage to sound sick."

"Screw you," Tommy said. He wasn't up to phone calls anyway.

Brendan shrugged and picked up the phone, turning away from Tommy. "Hi, is this Mrs. Mahoney? This is Brendan Conlon, may I speak to Tess please? Thank you." There was a pause, and Brendan hissed over his shoulder at Tommy, "Can you, like, not listen for once in your nosy life?" Then he whipped around, facing the other way, and said, "Hi, Tess."

His voice changed. He'd been pleasant and formal with That Girl's mom, and his regular annoyed brother self with Tommy, but now his voice sounded like cotton candy, all sweet and fluffy, almost gooey. "Babe, you doin' okay? I mean… yeah, last night… can't stop thinkin' about you."

Tommy rolled his eyes. He didn't care if Brendan saw him or not, but Brendan didn't look.

"Uh-huh… oh, me too. So much… Listen, I can't go anywhere tonight. Mom and Tommy have both got the flu pretty bad, and I'm probably gonna get it too, so I think I better stay home tonight. I'm sorry… yeah, I'm starting to feel bad too… they're sick as dogs. I'll tell 'em you said you hoped they felt better soon… Yeah… Uh-huh. Hey, have you got Christine Keagy's number? Tommy has to call and reschedule their date, there's no way he's goin' anywhere this week… okay. Got it. Thanks… Yeah… oh, Tess. It was the most – wait. I'm not alone, I can't talk… But anyway, it was incredible… I love you… No, don't worry. Don't worry, everything will be fine… I really love you, Tess."

Tommy made a gagging noise, and Brendan shot him the finger behind his back.

"Yeah. Well, sure, you go do stuff with the girls, that's fine. Have a good time. Just – you know, just think about me some, okay?... I love you too… Okay, bye."

He hung up and whirled on Tommy. "Look, man, I don't care that you're hurt, you don't have to be such a total dick about it. Tess has always been nice to you, way nicer than you deserve. Don't be like that."

"I don't like you gettin' all buddy-buddy with people," Tommy said, not liking the whiny note to his own voice but not able to keep the whine out, either. "She's just a girl. It's none of her business. She can't help like Mrs. Leahy."

"I don't expect her to help," Brendan said through clenched teeth. "I don't tell her everything – it'd probably scare her off, honestly. I don't know why you don't want me to be happy."

"She's not family," Tommy protested. This did not seem quite fair, but him not wanting Brendan to have a girlfriend, that wasn't fair either. The whole thing sucked pants big time.

"I'm ignoring you now," Brendan said. "And you're not talkin' to Christine Keagy, you'll blow the cover story. I'll tell her." He smirked a little, and picked up the phone, and then Tommy had to listen to his big brother tell Tommy's own date that Tommy was puking his guts up at the moment, or he'd have called her himself. "No, you don't want this stomach bug, Christine. It's nasty. Hope you don't come down with it." He gave Tommy an evil smile over the handset. "Yeah, Tess said she might call you and you could go do some girly stuff instead. Maybe the mall. She said something about a sale at Gap… uh-huh. Well, you have fun. Bye."

He hung up the phone. "She sounded disappointed. Or maybe she was just worried she's got your germs after sucking your face off in the hall. You know that was all over the school by the end of the day yesterday, right?"

Tommy didn't care. What was going on with Mom was so much more important. And his ribs hurt. He shrugged.

"Fine. I'm gonna go do some more planning upstairs, and then I'll come down in a little while and check on both of you again."

"Guess you'll find me right here," Tommy said, and by the time Brendan had gone upstairs he'd fallen dead asleep again, and stayed that way until his stomach growled near five o'clock and woke him up.

"Look who's awake," Brendan said, and Tommy, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, made a rude noise. "Was that seriously your stomach? I think Mrs. Leahy is bringing dinner, but you could have some milk or something. And toast?"

"Yeah. Toast and milk. I dunno, maybe a peanut butter sandwich instead of toast."

"Okay. And Mom's awake, maybe we can go in there and talk to her. I've been making some plans." Brendan helped Tommy up and went into the kitchen.

Tommy went to the bathroom, wincing at the bruise on his hip and the terrible ache in his ribs, and then went into Mom's room. She was lying there staring at the ceiling, and when she saw his face she started to cry.

"Oh, honey," she said, so softly that it made his own eyes sting. Her voice sounded nasal and fuzzy.

"I'm okay," he told her. "I am fine. Just a little achy."

"Tommy, honey, I never meant for you to get in the middle of all this."

"I couldn't just let him do it, Mom." She had to understand that. How could he just stand by and let her get hurt? "It's not that bad."

He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, and then lay back down. "Brendan been keeping your ice packs cold?" It hurt to look at her. Her left eye was swollen nearly shut, and her nose was swollen too, a pulpy-looking mass much different than its usual elegant shape.

"Yes." Her mouth was actually much worse than his own, and it looked like somebody had put a stitch in it. No, two stitches. He leaned over, ignoring the pull in his side, and kissed her cheek.

Then Brendan was back, with a sandwich and milk for Tommy, and a pain pill and some milk for Mom, too.

Once he was engaged with the sandwich, Brendan started talking. "Look. I agree with Mrs. Leahy, it's getting worse, and we can't just stick around for it to get any worse. Mom, I know you don't want to think about it, but do you really want to see Pop slap your baby around?"

"I just want him to stop," Mom said, her voice shaking. "I just want him to come home and stop acting like that. If he promises to stop, I don't want to go."

Brendan bit his lip, and he and Tommy looked at each other. "Mom," Brendan said, hesitantly, "what makes you think that even if he promises, he means it? He's done it before."

"I love him," Mom said, as if it were exactly that simple. "I love him and he's my husband, and if he agrees to treat us all right then there's no need for anything to change that drastically. I'm not getting divorced and I'm not going to have him arrested. If I have to move us to the women's shelter to get him to agree, I will."

Brendan sighed. "Mom. Will you just - look, I've been making plans. I don't think you have to divorce him, but I think we really have to not be living with him until he's been sober for awhile. Mrs. Leahy says that her daughter Katie could help us find a place in Cleveland. And it's not that far away. Far enough that he probably wouldn't just hop in the car after work and come fetch us home, not until you have been to counseling or something... will you please think about it? You could get a job. So could I."

"I could get a job too," Tommy added.

"Oh, as if," Brendan said. "You're too busy training, Mr. Junior Olympics."

"Don't be nasty to your brother," Mom chided. "There's nothing wrong with how Tommy spends his time. It's fine. So… Brendan, you'd be willing to_ leave_ here? Leave home?"

Brendan's eyes went shiny-bright even in the dim room, but he nodded firmly. "Yeah. I can't stand to see him do that to you ever again. I can't stand it, Mom, it's tearing me up. If it was just me…" He stopped and tilted his head a little. "That's why you stay. You can handle it when you're the only one getting hurt, hmm? As long as we're basically safe?"

Mom opened her mouth, and then shut it, looking surprised.

"Well, now it's not just you," Brendan said, but he said it softly, and he reached to take Mom's hand. "Mom… please… don't make me see that again. Please."

There was a short silence, during which tears began to run down Mom's face. And then she said, "Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm not strong enough. But you boys, you can help me. I can do it if you help me." And she just cried for a few minutes. Tommy and Brendan looked at each other, wanting to comfort her but scared of hurting. Then Tommy stroked her hair, and Brendan kissed her hand.

Then there was a knock at the door, and everyone froze. Brendan, biting his lip, got off the bed and went to see. Anybody else would have used the doorbell, with its ding-dong sound, but that was a knock. Tommy imagined that Pop might bang on the door, but maybe he was hungover and didn't want to make a lot of noise…

It was Mrs. Leahy's voice asking how the sick were, and the knots in Tommy's stomach relaxed. Brendan invited her in, and she bustled through, carrying a casserole dish with hot mitts and telling Brendan to be careful with the other containers. The smell of the food, chicken and gravy and vegetables, with a buttery crust, made Tommy's mouth water. They could hear Mrs. Leahy with Brendan in the kitchen, telling him how to keep it hot until people wanted to eat, and here was some Jell-O for Mary Frances, and canned pears, easy to eat, and here was some homemade applesauce as well. Tommy thought about how thoughtful Mrs. Leahy was, bringing food soft enough that Mom could eat it without pain. "Now you keep me in the loop, you hear me, young man? And what about school tomorrow?"

They could hear Brendan explaining that they'd all stay home for the next week, and Mrs. Leahy mm-hmm-ing along at his explanations. Then she left, and Brendan came back in.

"Tell me," Mom said, before he could get on to the subject of food, "about your plans, Brendan. What were you thinking of doing?"

And Brendan went into his 500-mile-radius idea, about eight hours of driving time, and how that would be close but not close enough that Mom would be tempted to come back.

"Not unless I was sure he was better," Mom said. "Maybe six months from now. Maybe a year."

Brendan talked about Cleveland. Or Virginia. Or Chicago, even. Indianapolis. Lexington, Kentucky.

"Kentucky," Mom mused out loud. "Never been there. Or Virginia sounds nice – no cold winters like here."

Brendan opened the atlas, showing Mom a route on his map with his finger. "Look – if we go south on I-79… and then east on I-64… and south again on I-81, we could be in Roanoke in… six hours maybe. Or if you wanted to go down out of the mountains, we could stay on 64 another couple of hours and be in Richmond." He frowned. "Actually, no, we'd go south on I-76 and then down US 270. Only another hour. It's not that_ far,_ Mom, not really. And everybody says the schools are good in Virginia."

Mom nodded, in a considering sort of way.

Tommy's stomach went icy again, even with that good warm smell of chicken pot pie in the house. She was thinking about it.

She was _actually thinking about it_.

They got through the rest of that evening, full of pot pie and applesauce. And they got through the night, Tommy back on the couch and Brendan back on the living room floor in his sleeping bag, with the baseball bat nearby, and Mom sleeping heavy with her pain pills in her bedroom. Pop did not come home. Some part of Tommy worried about him, and some other part of him was shrieking, _Good riddance! Serve him right if he was dead in a ditch somewhere! Things would be so much easier if he just died…_

Yet another part of Tommy's head was wondering if he could do as well with wrestling if he didn't have Pop pushing him so hard, and some _other _part was chastising him for being so selfish.

Whatever parts of him weren't taken up with such confusing thoughts were worrying about how long it would be before he could take more Advil and get fresh cold packs. But he slept, anyway.

When Sunday morning came and there was still no Pop, Tommy's ribs hurt worse than ever. His face hurt too, but he could tell that the ache in his hip had actually started to calm a little. The bruise was deep purple-blue now, not black as it had been on Saturday, and it was still painful, but it didn't provide the clanging counterbalance to the pain in his ribs. Which was good, because his _ribs_ were bruised black now, and God knew he didn't need any other pains to add to those.

Mom looked worse too. She stayed asleep most of the day, Brendan feeding her pain pills every time the timer went off and only managing to get her to eat a little in between the times that her mind was clear enough to stay awake.

Brendan called Tess in the afternoon and told her he was sick. Tommy had been lying on the couch dead to the world, but his brother's voice – again soft and gooey with affection – woke him up, so he lay there and listened to Brendan say mushy things to That Girl, and waited for Brendan to say too much. Ribs or no ribs, if he did it, Tommy knew he'd have to sit up and pound Brendan to shut him up. _Nobody_ else had the right to know, unless they were like Mrs. Leahy and wouldn't tell people. That Girl, on the other hand, might just ruin everything.

Brendan did not say too much. He hung up, and Tommy relaxed enough to go back to sleep for a couple of hours.

Brendan brought him some applesauce and more Advil, and sat down on the couch near Tommy's feet. "Listen," he said. "Listen, we have to keep things under control if we're gonna have any chance of gettin' outta here. That is, when Pop comes in, even if he's being a pain in the ass, we take it. We don't provoke him. We need time to get things together, and we have to get you and Mom healed up enough to go anywhere. So just – maintain, okay? You hear me?"

"I hear you," Tommy said back. It made sense. They were like animals, all of them – they had to decide on the spur of the moment, didn't they, whether to run or fight the predator, or to hide. Right now they would have to hide until they were able to run. And that was pretty damn sad, animals too badly hurt to even run away. He shook his head and told himself to just hunker down, and get through it.

Brendan went off upstairs to do some homework, his typical good-student shit, and Tommy was watching some spring training baseball when he heard the Buick pull up outside. "Brendan!" he called softly. "He's home. Pop's back." He pulled himself upright, and Brendan came into the living room and peeked through a gap in the curtains.

"Looks okay," Brendan said tensely. "Hung over, maybe. Not drunk now." He took a deep breath. "I'm goin' outside. Don't want him comin' in if he's pissed off."

"Brendan – " Tommy started, nervous as hell, but Brendan went outside anyway, shutting the door firmly behind him. Tommy peeked through the curtains and saw Brendan standing at the top of the steps with his arms hanging ready at his sides.

Pop, wearing Friday's clothes, stopped at the bottom of the concrete steps and stared up, squinting a little. He said something short to Brendan that Tommy couldn't hear, something probably like, "Hey."

Brendan didn't say anything, just stood there like one of those old-fashioned knight dudes who guard castle doors. He kept standing there while Pop made his slow way up the steps, hands out in front of him like he could explain everything. But Pop's hands were shaky and so were his knees, and it was almost painful to watch him walk up, trying not to look aggressive. When he got to the top, he stopped one step below the step Brendan was standing on. "What's this?" he said.

"You don't come in if you're gonna hit somebody," Brendan said, and Tommy, who had moved the curtains open farther to see his brother standing there like King Arthur or something, sucked in a breath at Brendan's daring.

"No, no," Pop said. "That was… Friday night, that was bad. Brendan, I'm ashamed of myself. I feel terrible about it." Pop's eyes went past Brendan and landed on Tommy at the window. Pop's mouth fell open, and he said, "Move, I gotta see 'em. I ain't gonna hurt anybody, but I'm goin' in. It's my house."

Brendan reached back and opened the door, and he came in before Pop, standing between Pop and Tommy. Pop swallowed hard, looking at Tommy. "Son," he said, "I'm – I'm sorry. You shouldn'ta got into what was between your mother and me. But you'll know next time."

Tommy nodded, but he was thinking, _There's not gonna be a next time. 'Cause we'll be gone, old man. We'll be gone._

Then Pop started to walk to the bedroom, but Brendan stopped him, standing between him and the hall. "Pop," he said. "Mom's pretty bad hurt. Concussion and bruised kidney."

"That right?" Pop said. He took a deep breath. "Well. It won't happen again. She knows better than to lie to me."

"We took her to the doctor," Brendan said. "Told them she fell. They stitched up her lip."

Pop's back stiffened, but he didn't move for a minute. "Anything else?"

"Just the bruises," Brendan said. "She needs to rest."

"I won't bother her," Pop said. "Gonna tell her I'm home. Then I'll shower, eat some dinner and go to bed myself so I can make it to work tomorrow."

Brendan nodded and moved out of Pop's way, back to Tommy's side, as Pop went into the bedroom. He looked at Tommy's face and winced. "You look like somebody worked you over with a brick," he said quietly. "Hard to look at you."

"Mom's worse," Tommy reminded him.

"I wish I'd been here." Brendan let his head fall back against the couch. "I'm sorry, Tommy."

Tommy didn't know what he really had to be sorry for, except maybe for being stupid, but he said it anyway. He hated being mad at Brendan although that never seemed to stop him getting mad sometimes. "Me too."

**A/N: Just so you know, according to weather dot com, the average temperatures in Richmond, VA are 5 degrees higher than Pittsburgh's in the summer months and 10 degrees higher in the winter months. Roanoke's monthly averages range from 2 degrees higher in the summer to 6 degrees higher in winter. They'd have probably been a bit disappointed at still getting snow in Virginia. On the other hand, when Virginia gets snow, it's GONE in three days.**


	8. Chapter 8: That Girl Is Nosy

**A/N: AAAAARRRRGGHHHH, this has been so so hard to write. And more angst to come.**

**FUBAR is one of those military acronyms that military personnel tend to use to describe a situation that is a complete wreck. My mostly non-swearing Navy-officer** dad used it, telling us it meant, "Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition." Though I'm fairly sure Paddy wouldn't have said "fouled." **

**** ROTC at Virginia Tech. He served his active duty on a destroyer-tender ship based in Norfolk, VA, from 1960-62, with four years in the Reserves. The service requirements associated with ROTC are different now, and have been for at least three decades if not longer. Not sure when they changed (if anyone knows, please tell me.)**

Sunday evening, Pop had been fine, talking sweetly to Mom in their bedroom, waiting on her hand and foot. Tommy could hear their voices through the door, and it made him feel sick and unsteady. Pop's voice sounded tender and gentle and sad, just as if he hadn't been the one making Mom into pulp. He couldn't hear many of the words, but once, when he was coming out of the bathroom, he heard Pop say, "Jesus, Mary Fran, why do you push me like that? You know I couldn't stand to lose you. I can't let you go."

_Oh God. He's going to talk her right back into staying_, he thought, and his stomach turned over.

All Monday, Pop was still sweet as pie, eating cereal for breakfast and making his own coffee, his own packed lunch for work. On his way out, he stopped by the couch and put his big hand on Tommy's forehead, just resting it there. Tommy looked up at Pop and Pop looked back. His mouth opened and he took a deep breath, and for a minute there Tommy thought Pop was going to apologize. But he didn't. He said, "Get some rest, Tom," very softly, and then he left.

Brendan took care of him and Mom all day. He called the school and reported that both he and Tommy were sick, along with their mother. He took Mom her medication and applesauce and milkshakes, he brought fresh ice packs and found stuff on TV that Tommy might like. He read Mom part of her book. Tommy told him he was good at taking care of them, and Brendan made a face. "No, I'm not. I just do it because there's nobody else to do it." Tommy was going to argue, but then Brendan went back in to check on Mom, and he let it go.

Pop heated up Mrs. Leahy's casserole for dinner, but Tommy still couldn't eat much. It was tough when every movement made him short of breath. But every time he thought about their plan, about leaving, he felt sick, and maybe that was another reason food seemed so unnecessary at the time.

Tuesday afternoon, Tommy was asleep on the couch when the sound of the door opening shocked him awake. He lurched up suddenly into a semi-sitting position, in a panic and crying out in pain at the insult to his ribs, and it startled the person standing just inside the door enough to shriek and drop things on the floor.

"What the _hell_ – " he blurted out, staring at That Girl, who was now picking up papers and textbooks off the carpet.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," she said, frantically gathering the papers into a stack and shoving her long blonde hair behind her ears. "Brendan said he needed his classwork so I brought it, and I got yours from the office too, so you could work on it when you felt..." she looked up and froze, her jaw dropping and her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Oh my God," she whispered, her eyes wide and horrified.

Too late he remembered the spectacular bruising on his face. It wasn't as bad as Mom's, but the mottled red patches on his cheekbone and eyebrow and jaw where Pop's heavy open hand had hit him had turned into dark patches, so that his face looked like marble cake.

"He said you were_ sick_. He said you all had the _flu_. He didn't say anything about... What – what happened, Tommy?" Tess whispered, moving on her knees over next to the couch. "Who _did _this to you?"

He couldn't answer for a second, because he hadn't prepared an excuse. He'd planned to simply be out of school until his ribs were better and his face looked relatively normal. And while he hesitated, her eyes filled up with tears.

Pity was something he could never bear, from anyone. It made him feel helpless and stupid, and he could feel his temper straining at the ropes. "I fell," he said, in the most _fuck-you_ tone of voice he could muster. "I was dizzy from my fever and I fell down the stairs."

"No, you didn't," she said, low and fierce. "Where's Brendan, is he okay? Is he – "

"He's in the shower. Can't you hear the water running?" What was she, an idiot?

"I hear it. I just - I worry. Something isn't right in this house," she said, and her eyebrows were all bunched together in concern.

"It's not catching," he said, scornfully, and lay back down on the couch. "I fell."

"What about the 'flu'?" she said back, with equal scorn.

He didn't have any reply to that. Except, "How did you get in the house? I know it was locked."

"Brendan told me where the key was, once. I thought I'd just come in and put these books and stuff on the dining room table, and just sneak out without bothering anybody. I know your bedroom's upstairs. I thought everybody would be sick and asleep." She looked at Tommy up close, suspiciously, and put the papers and stuff on the coffee table. "You're not sick at all."

"Yes, I am." _Fuck you, nosy cheerleader girl_. It was easy to hate That Girl if he didn't look at what kind of person she was. It was easy to hate her for being a do-gooder with her nose in other people's business, the prim-and-proper one who never told lies and never did anything that would get her in trouble.

"Does your mom know?" she demanded. "She doesn't seriously think you got hurt fallin' down the stairs, does she?"

At the mention of Mom, Tommy had sat back up again in a panic. It made him groan and clutch at the strain on his ribs, and Tess' mouth fell open again. "Leave Mom alone. She don't need to be bothered by this crap. Leave her alone."

"She needs to know," Tess said urgently and got up from her knees. Tommy did not want to let That Girl go into Mom's room and see Mom looking worse than Tommy, and he propelled himself to his feet, quickly and painfully. But he lost his balance, after having spent so much time lying down, and had to reach out a hand to That Girl's shoulder to steady himself.

Tess' eyes got even bigger, and her mouth dropped open again. "Oh my _God._ Your mom, too?"

"Mom is fine," he insisted through lips suddenly gone shaky._ She cannot go in there_. "She's _fine_. Leave her alone, she's resting."

The water shut off in the bathroom. The two of them stood there in the living room, Tess horrified at her discovery and Tommy horrified and sweating freely at the idea that Tess would discover even more of the truth. They stared at each other. Then Tess relaxed her shoulders, and she said to Tommy, calmly, "You should lie back down. I won't bother her. It's fine. I want to talk to Brendan before I go." She sighed and shook her head with her eyes closed. When she opened them again she looked fierce, and for three seconds Tommy could see what Brendan saw in her, a pretty girl who cared about people. "Oh my God. Tommy, you have to tell somebody. You _have _to."

"No," Tommy said. "And _you _can't, either."

"It won't stop unless you do," she said, grabbing his shoulders with both hands and shaking him just a little. It made him wince. "Sorry. What - where else are you hurt?" And before he could even move, she pulled his shirt up and gasped at the bruises made by Pop's work boot on his ribs. Her mouth dropped open again and tears sort of just jumped out of her eyes. "Holy Mary, Mother of God…" She crossed herself with one hand, holding the shirt with the other. "This is so awful, I had no idea..."

Tommy twitched the edge of his shirt out of her hands and sat down on the couch again. "Spare me the social worker routine, willya? It is _none of your business_."

"Wrong," she said, and wiped her face with the heels of her hands. She looked mad. "Brendan is my business. And what happens at his house matters."

Tommy caught sight of the clock on the wall. "This don't concern you," Tommy said, getting jumpy on top of his embarrassment. "Please go – "

"I'm so sorry," she said, tearing up again. "I am so sorry this happened to you. I just wanna help."

With her feeling sorry for him, all the pain and shame went flooding through him again, and he had to fight hard not to cry himself. He hated feeling like this, _hated_ it. His voice had gone all scratchy when he managed to speak. "Tess… please just – please just go away. Please."

Brendan walked in then, rubbing at his wet hair with a towel and his face lighting up at the sight of Tess. "Hey," he said warmly, and smiled at her. Then his face changed as he realized this couldn't be good. "What are you doin' in the house? I thought you were just gonna drop those off at the front door."

"I was just trying to be nice," Tess said, turning toward him. Her voice shook as she gestured toward Tommy. "Brendan, this is terrible – he's hurt. We have to _do something_."

"This is none of her business," Tommy spat out, blinking tears furiously. "Since when do we let anybody in on our private family business, since when is_ that _okay?"

Brendan didn't answer, but he moved to Tess' side and put his arm around her. "I'm glad you're all right," she said fervently, muffling her face in his shoulder and sliding her arms around his waist.

"I'm okay," Brendan said, and hugged Tess tight. "I'm home to help take care of people. Mom's not getting around very well at the moment."

It could not be more clear that he'd sold them all out to the Infiltrator in the Cheerleader Skirt. "_Oh. Fuck. Me_," Tommy said, banging his head back against the couch in stunned frustration.

"Watch your mouth," Brendan said sharply.

"You're gonna blow our whole deal for a girl?" Tommy said, disgusted and humiliated and way,_ way _pissed off at his brother's careless treatment of their secrets. "For a _girl_. Way to go, genius."

"You don't talk about Tess like that," Brendan said. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"You know exactly what's wrong," Tommy snapped back. "You do. You just don't care." He gestured at the clock on the wall. "Pop'll be here any minute. She has to get the hell outta here or we'll all get walloped. Even Mom, for being asleep. Goddammit, Brendan!"

"Shit," Brendan said, and then, "Sorry, Tess. He's right, you have to go. I'll call later if I can."

Tess pulled back to look at Brendan. "But Brendan – this can't go on. You have to _tell_ somebody. And if you don't, _I _will."

"Oh my God," Tommy said. "Are you_ tryin'_ to get us killed? We have a plan, okay? We have a plan. And if everybody can just keep it together for a little while longer, things will be just fine. Stay out of it. _Please._"

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," Brendan said, and kissed her on the lips. "Just make sure Pop doesn't see you going out the door, okay?"

"But – " Tess was apparently reluctant to go. "Look, can I bring you some food or something? Do you need anything? I just want to _help._"

"Please, babe," Brendan said softly. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. And thanks for bringing our stuff by."

"Yeah," Tommy added, trying to be fair. It was nice of her to bring it, never mind that she should have just left it outside the door. "Thank you." _Go away, goodbye, good riddance, what the fuck was Brendan thinking?_

Then she was gone and Brendan was glaring at him and he was glaring back. They had just started to get into it, all the "she-said, you-shouldn't-have, I-can't-believe-you-did that, I-can't-believe-you-said-that, what-are-you-_crazy?_" crap, when they heard the Olds pull up outside.

Pop was home.

So they put off the argument, and Brendan got busy changing Mom's cold packs, and he brought Tommy some cold water and a couple more Advils while Pop was standing in the living room reading the mail. With nothing to do since Tommy was clearly unable to train – and with nobody to blame but himself for creating that situation – Pop was antsy, didn't know what to do with his time. He sat down in his chair and watched some ESPN with Tommy, neither one of them talking, and then he went into the kitchen and started banging around in there. He made chocolate milkshakes in the blender and took one in to Mom, on the little lap tray she used when somebody was sick. "Drink that, it'll do you good," Tommy and Brendan could hear Pop saying to her in there. "And let's open the blinds a little, it's like a cave in here."

Then he went back into the kitchen and brought out three more milkshakes. "Nothin' goes better with a little baseball, huh?" he said jovially to Brendan. He'd hardly spoken to Tommy at all since Friday night, or at least he'd said nothing of consequence. Covering up the shit, as usual, the way a dog will scrape its hind feet in the yard.

There was so much coldness in Tommy's heart he thought nothing would ever thaw it. Pop had turned on him. Pop had betrayed him and kicked him and treated him like filth, and he was fucking done. He'd stand it for as long as it took to get all the plans made, and then he would never look back.

But he needed the nutrition, so he drank the milkshake anyway. And he started thinking about Angela Chin and her offer of, "Call me anytime."

* * *

On Wednesday morning, Mrs. Leahy brought them fresh groceries and refused any payment for them. "You take that money and put it aside for your mama," she said firmly to Brendan when he offered her the grocery money from the envelope. "Hide it good now. It might come in handy. And I don't have a thing to spend money on, now that Bill is gone and my kids are grown and flown. The house is paid for, and the car is too. I oughta get a new one, matter of fact. Those cute little Mustang convertibles, I always wanted one a' those. Should get me a bright red one."

Tommy managed not to laugh at the idea of Mrs. Leahy, old-lady glasses and lavender pantsuit and all, letting her white poodle hair blow in the wind, gunning the Mustang down Penn Ave. That was good, because laughing hurt. But he smiled, winced at the way his split lip pulled, and smiled again anyway.

Pop was an hour late coming home, but when he did show up he was carrying a paper cone with flowers in it, pink tulips and carnations and roses, and yellow and white daisies. He took it right in to Mom's bedroom and closed the door, and it was quiet in there for a long time. Brendan, taking a break from homework, was sitting on the couch with Tommy's feet in his lap, watching some dumb History Channel documentary, and they looked at each other in puzzlement. There had been a few words spoken in the room, too soft for them to hear out here, but no other sounds.

Brendan made breakfast for dinner. The bacon was slightly burned where it wasn't chewy and pink, and the scrambled eggs with mushrooms were overcooked, but Tommy ate it all and let the food settle in his stomach. He imagined the nutrients making their way to the hurt places inside his body, making them better bit by bit, processing the waste products of his bruises and taking the soreness away. He wasn't sure that worked, but it wouldn't hurt either.

He still wouldn't go upstairs and sleep in his own bed. For one thing, he was still pissed off at Brendan, and if he went upstairs for any length of time they'd probably argue over That Girl. This way, Pop was underfoot and there was no way Brendan would bring up something sensitive where there was a chance Pop would overhear. For another thing, the stairs still hurt. Sitting up hurt. Going to the bathroom hurt.

Thursday, though, Brendan tackled him on it about half an hour after Mom had had her midmorning pain meds, about the time they would make her doze off. "About Tess," Brendan said hesitantly, and sat on the couch next to Tommy.

"I don't wanna talk about it," Tommy insisted immediately. "I am not talkin' about it. You're gonna do whatcha want anyway."

"She won't tell anybody," Brendan said, lowering his voice. "She promised me. She's trustworthy, Tommy."

Tommy snorted through his nose a little, but he didn't say anything. The idea that Brendan would let _some girl _in on stuff that should be private, just for the family, well… it still just pissed him off. Brendan had just decided that on his own, and Tommy hadn't had a say in it at all. Screw that shit.

"Look, you been dodgin' me ever since Tuesday," Brendan said. "Quit being such a damn princess and just say what you think."

"I already said it. You just don't give a shit. I can count the number of shits you give on my zero hands, right here. Now shut up about it, it's done. And if we get clocked tryin' to leave, or if social workers come to the house asking all kinds of questions, I would not wanna be you. Because Pop will rip you to pieces. And I will stomp the pieces into shreds and scatter 'em myself."

"God," Brendan said. "What ate your shorts?"

"Oh, what ate my shorts? How about you just makin' a choice all on your lonesome to just_ let _somebody else – "

"I didn't let her, she came in on her own!"

"Yeah, you did. You told her where the key was and you didn't tell her not to come in, so some way you musta wanted her to know," Tommy said, hotly, and Brendan's mouth shut and his shoulders slumped.

There was a pause. "Yeah, maybe I did want her to know. So what." Brendan shrugged, and a blaze of fury shot through Tommy's entire body.

"This is so screwed up. You pickin' that girl over me an' Mom, it's totally FUBAR." That was one of Pop's Marine words, FUBAR, and for a second there it made Tommy jump, hearing it come out of his own mouth. "I don't understand you. I don't get you, Brendan."

There was another pause, a longer one, and when Brendan replied his voice was soft and hesitant and frustrated. "I… God. How can I explain this?" He sighed. "I love her. I feel… married to her. I don't wanna go away from her."

"You think I wanna go?" Tommy demanded. "I don't. But I at least know that Mom's life is worth more than my 'want to.'"

"You think I don't care about you? Of course I care. I know what we have to do." But Brendan's voice was choked with emotion. "Would it be so bad, though – if I stayed?"

"Yes. _Yes,_ it would." Tommy's stomach was suddenly liquid with fear. "I don't know shit, Brendan. I wouldn't know what to do. I need you. Mom needs you. You hold us together."

Brendan shoved himself up off the couch and started pacing around the room. "I just… I dunno. I think you'd be okay. You're smart, Tommy, way smarter than Pop ever gives you credit for, and you know how to take care of people."

"Don't, don't do this to me. Don't." He couldn't keep his voice from shaking. "Brendan, I swear – _don't_. You gotta come with us. We need you."

"I'm not sayin' I'm not goin'." Brendan held his hands up. "I'm plannin' to go. I'm just sayin' I think you'd be okay, that's all. That's all I meant, okay? Okay? Jesus, don't panic on me."

"_Not funny_, asshole."

"Don't panic. Look. I'll go and start puttin' a few things in duffel bags for you an' me, okay? In case we have to go quick and don't have time to pack. I'll go do that, and I'll pack up some of Mom's stuff later." He headed for the stairs, and then stopped. "You know we can't take a lotta personal stuff, right? We gotta travel light. No trophies and shit."

"No trophies, screw the trophies," Tommy said through stiff lips. "You and me and Mom, that's all I care about."

Brendan gave him a strange, unreadable look, and went upstairs. Tommy, nervous but not feeling like getting up, picked up his math textbook and tried doing some word problems. It made him feel itchy, not being able to move much. Twenty minutes later, Brendan was downstairs with Tommy's favorite navy duffel bag, showing him what was in it – three pairs of jeans, three pairs of athletic shorts, a week's worth of underwear and socks, six short-sleeve t-shirts and two long-sleeved ones.

"That okay?" Brendan asked. "It's pretty full, I can't even get your extra shoes in there. Can you get by on the skivvies? I figured we could do okay with most of ours packed, if I do laundry often enough."

"'S cool," Tommy said. "Where's yours?"

"I'm takin' the TAHS Dragons bag – it's under my bed," Brendan said. "I'll go stick this under yours. Pop never looks under there." Tommy's shoulders relaxed. He'd had the weirdest feeling that Brendan might back out, just for a minute there. It made him feel sick with fear. Just going away, that was scary enough; doing it without Brendan would be a nightmare. "And then I'll go pack up some stuff for Mom and put hers upstairs too."

"Better wait until she's awake enough to tell you what she needs you to pack."

"Yeah, okay. And Tommy?"

Tommy squinted at Brendan. _What now?_

"I think you should call that reporter lady. Angela Chin? I think you should call her."

Tommy shrugged. "You want somebody else to know too? Jesus. Are you insane?"

"No. I just thought… maybe she could help."

"With what?" Tommy asked scornfully, just as if he hadn't been thinking about that very thing yesterday. "Free Post-Gazettes? What are you _thinkin'_?"

"I'm thinkin' we need help, is what. Like people to contact. Like… I dunno… If we're headed south, maybe she could get us phone numbers of people who could help. Women's center in Richmond. That sort of thing."

"We can't use this phone," Tommy reminded him. Pop checked the phone bill over every month, noting every single call – even the local ones.

"I'll go to Mrs. Leahy's and call," Brendan said. "You guys be okay if I go down there this afternoon? I can tell Pop I'm goin' to study with Tess."

"Of course you're gonna go study with Tess."

"Shut up." Brendan went banging out the front door. He was gone twenty minutes, and came back into the house at a run. "Called her and told her I was your brother. She's in, she wants to talk to me, Mrs. Leahy's gonna run me down there in her car. Hope to be back by one, or one-thirty, okay?"

"Wait, what?" Tommy sat up on the couch, but Brendan was gone again. He stayed gone for two and a half hours, during which Tommy made Mom some tomato soup from a can and took the bowl in on a tray. It took him forever because he couldn't straighten up fully, but he did it. And then he helped Mom out of bed and helped her hobble across the hall to the bathroom.

"We're doin' better," Mom said to him when she came out of the bathroom. "I can tell, you're feeling better too."

He tried very hard to not sneer. Let Mom be optimistic, she probably needed to be after all the crap Pop had put her through, after all these years. Leaving aside the fact that her husband had beat the shit out of her, she was right – she was starting to recover. Her face looked like a face again, with the swelling down even if the bruising was still there. And she could walk, sort of. Tommy's own face still looked bad, but it didn't hurt as much either.

He got her situated in bed again, only stopping once to hold on to his side and get several good breaths. "Oh honey," Mom sighed. "I never meant for you to get caught up in this. I never wanted you boys involved."

"Mom. You_ know _we were involved. Right from the beginning, from the very first time he ever hit you." Mom winced, but he kept talking, all of his confusion and shame and anger and hurt coming up to the surface. "He's my dad. I love him too, but it's not right. I don't know any other way to be, except not this way."

Mom reached up and touched his bruised cheek. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Tommy. You shouldn't have to suffer."

"None of us should," he said. "I know that much." He paused a minute, sitting down on the bed beside her. "Are you sure you can go through with it? Leaving?"

"I don't want to," she said, and tears sprang up in her eyes. "But I can't let him hurt you. Or Brendan. I can't sit around and take that. And maybe if we go, he'll come to his senses and get help. When he's not drinkin', he's so sweet to me. And he's so proud of you two."

"As long as we do everything _his _way," Tommy muttered.

"I think I might like livin' somewhere else for a while," she said, with a note of hope in her voice. "Richmond sounds nice. Just think, _Richmond_."

He stayed with her until Brendan came home, reading her a couple chapters of her book and bringing her water when she asked for it. He was still sitting on the bed next to Mom when Brendan came in, his eyes very bright, and started talking fast, clearly excited. He said that Ms. Chin kept wanting to call Social Services, but he'd been able to talk her out of it. She'd suggested the local Women's Resource Center, but he'd told her that they were set on moving out of the area very soon. He'd told her where they were thinking of going, and she'd found some resources online and printed him out a whole page worth of phone numbers to call in central Virginia.

"All kinds of stuff! Somethin' called Commonwealth Catholic Charities – isn't that funny, Virginia's a Commonwealth like Pennsylvania, I didn't know – and a bunch of places to call to get help with housing and food and stuff like that, and churches in the area. Things like that. Social Services, if we need it, and phone numbers for the free health clinic…"

"So she – she's not gonna call the cops or anything?" Tommy wanted to know. That had been his worry.

"No. I convinced her that the best thing would be for us to lay low until we can get out of town."

"Next week," Mom said. "Or the week after. I'm not sure I can drive until then."

"I can drive, Mom," Brendan said, his forehead creasing up. "I have my license, it's no problem. It's only a six-hour drive. Well, six and a half, maybe. Only a little bit farther than goin' to Philadelphia." He leaned in and lowered his voice, even though no one else was listening. "And she gave me some money, too. She asked if we needed any, and I said no, but she opened her purse and pulled out all the cash in it, even the coins."

"Oh, now you shouldn't have taken that," Mom said, worried. "We don't need to take charity – "

"She_ insisted,_ Mom. A hundred and twenty-seven dollars and fifty-five cents."

That seemed like a lot of money to carry, to Tommy. He knew that Pop's paycheck went mostly into the bank, except for what he gave Mom for what he called "housekeeping," and for his drinking money. Then, too, there on Pop's dresser was a little box that held Pop's sacred Whiskey Twenty, the cash he kept for emergencies of a certain kind.

"Well…" Mom said, and started to bite her lip before she remembered there were two stitches in it. "That'll be very helpful. That was very kind of her. Brendan, open the closet, will you? There are some shoeboxes on the top shelf. Take down the pink box on the bottom of the stack, please." Brendan did that, stretching up to get the box out without toppling the boxes on top of it. He brought it to the bed.

Mom opened it, lifted out a pair of white satin shoes with heels, and started pulling crumpled bills out of the toes. A ten here, some twenties, a bunch of fives, several ones, even a couple of fifties. "I been savin' for some time now. Little bit here and there… and I'd change the little ones for bigger ones when I could, at the grocery store. They never seemed to mind." When she had all the bills on the bed, Brendan helped her count them. They added up to two hundred and four dollars.

"There now," Mom said. "With the other, that'll be nice. That'll help. And I'll get a job as soon as I can."

"I forgot to tell you Mrs. Leahy wouldn't take your grocery money the other day, too," Brendan said. "So that's another sixty. And all together, that's – " he paused and added in his head, "three hundred and ninety-one bucks."

"And fifty-five cents," Tommy added. That was a lot. "And I'll chip in my savings, too." He hardly ever spent birthday money – well, he hardly ever got any, but occasionally a five might come his way. He and Brendan had mowed a few lawns last summer, too. He'd been saving up for a Steelers hoodie of his own, but this was more important. "Add forty-two."

"Then it's four hundred and thirty-three. And mine – I saved some from shoveling snow and mowin' grass," Brendan said. "Add mine, and you've got five hundred and four."

"Awesome," Tommy said.

Mom nodded. She handed the bills to Brendan. "Why don't you keep that money with the clothes in your bag? I don't want it in here, in case it gets found." She placed the shoes back into the box, just so, with tissue paper in the toes. "Those were my wedding shoes," she said softly, and put the lid back on. "Put it back on the shelf now."

Then Brendan bustled around, packing up some clothes for Mom in the biggest duffel bag they had – a pair of jeans, a sweater, one pretty sundress, two pairs of nice pants and her good skirt suit, plus some blouses. Some comfortable shoes, and some dressy ones too. She said she'd pack the underwear if he could bring the drawer over to the bed, and Brendan's face relaxed. He must have been dreading pawing through silky stuff in Mom's drawer, Tommy thought.

Brendan took that bag upstairs and shoved it under Tommy's bed, and futzed around in the kitchen doing stuff, and by the time Pop came home everything looked innocent. Tommy was sitting on the couch with his English textbook, answering questions about the chapter, and Brendan was doing chemistry problems, and even Mom was sitting up in bed with her book, hair brushed and the blinds open. Wearing a little perfume, even, because she said it made her feel pretty even if she wasn't at her best at the moment.

"Looks like everybody's feelin' a little better, huh?" Pop said. "Good. Good. I might run down to Fitzy's for a couple hours, maybe hit the heavy bag some. Brendan, you wanna go?"

Tommy couldn't keep his gaze on his book. He looked up, startled. Pop hardly ever did that, invited Brendan to just go hang out with him.

Brendan looked startled too. "Um – uh, yeah. Yeah, I can go. As long as I'm back in time to finish makin' dinner. There's a meatloaf ready to go into the oven, and I was gonna do baked potatoes in the microwave, heat up some canned green beans. Nothin' too difficult."

"Your brother can do that," Pop said, "or your mother. Probably do her good to get up. Come on, then, grab your stuff. You can change there." Pop clapped his hands twice. "Chop chop, let's go."

And Brendan went upstairs, coming back down with shorts and a t-shirt of the kind he called "sweatworthy," met Tommy's eyes once, almost shamefaced, as he went out the door Pop was holding open for him. Tommy sat there feeling odd, for some reason, like the world had shifted about half an inch on its axis. _That was weird._

**A/N: I'm hoping to manage finishing the next chapter by the middle of next week, or hopefully sooner, but I swear, this is such heavy stuff. All the crap associated with Mrs. Conlon and Tommy leaving Pittsburgh, it's so **_**dark**_**. Thanks for being patient, and I would adore reviews. Pretty please. :)**


	9. Chapter 9: Start a War

**Walk away now and you're gonna start a war.**

On Friday, Brendan sat at the dining room table doing homework, and Tommy sat on the couch doing his own. It was English, stuff he was missing in class. They were reading a story called, "The Scarlet Ibis," which Brendan said had been standard 9th grade English lit curriculum since the Pleistocene Era, or at least since the 1970s, and it totally sucked. Most of the time Tommy hated the crap they had to read, anyway, but even if he ran across something he liked, then they had to kill the enjoyment by asking a zillion stupid questions about it. He sighed. This one was even worse than usual, some story about a boy and his crippled little brother in 1918, and a dead bird. Reading it made him uncomfortable.

Brendan was jumpy - he'd been up and wandering around the house three times in the past hour. On his fourth trip through the living room, Tommy tackled him about it. "What's up wit' you? What's wrong?"

Brendan shook his head. "I don't know. Just - just nervous, I guess." He blew out a sigh and came over to mess up Tommy's hair.

"Quit it." Tommy shook his head to make the hair fall back into place. Any minute now, Pop was likely to look at his head and start making snip-snip motions with his fingers. Pop liked them to look neat. Mom would cut their hair, and then brush her hand over the short fuzz, sigh and smile affectionately. "Wonder if Mom might cut my hair. If she feels like it," he said, just thinking.

"Don't bug her about it."

"I won't. _God_. It was just an idea. You are a pain in the butt today."

"Couldn't be 'cause I'm stuck at home with_ you,_ could it?" Brendan said acidly, and then he blew out another one of those huge sighs. "I'm bored. I miss Tess. I miss school. Think you guys would be okay by Monday? Because I really wanna go back."

"Probably," Tommy said. He was feeling some better. He could get up now without making horrible _I'm-dying_ noises. "Don't know if I can make it on Monday, but probably by Wednesday." He thought about leaving, and his stomach turned over. Going back to school was only likely to be temporary, anyway. "What's the weather like in Richmond, do ya think?"

"Right now?" Brendan shrugged. "Warmer than here, I'm guessing. Bet they've got spring flowers poppin' up."

"That'll be nice," Tommy said. "You know, if Pop's in a good mood you could maybe go out tonight. I can maybe help get Mom up to the bathroom."

"Nnnoooo…" Brendan said, like he'd really like to go but doubted Tommy's capabilities. "No. It can wait. I don't think you're really up to it yet. You breathe like an elderly asthmatic."

"Suck it up," Tommy said.

"You snore even worse than usual, too." Brendan aimed a rabbit punch at his shoulder, the one opposite his bruised ribs. Tommy had managed to get up the stairs last night and sleep in his own bed last night. It had felt good to be back there, with the wall leaning cozily over him the way it always had and Brendan making soft sleep noises in his bed four feet away.

"Oh, bite me."

"I miss Tess," Brendan said again. "I miss school."

"Well, _go _then," Tommy told him, annoyed. "Jesus. Just do it. You can walk in late with a note from Mom."

"Nah. Too much explaining associated with that."

Well, that was true. Brendan went into Mom's room and asked her if she wanted anything, and what she wanted was to be helped across the hall to the bathroom so she could take a shower. Just supported, really - she said she was feeling a little better, too, and Tommy could see that she was making her way by herself, with Brendan's arm only for balance. She wasn't leaning hunched over like an old lady anymore, either.

Things were looking up. Except for the stupid questions about the stupid reading assignment. Seriously, somebody wanted to know how Doodle the crippled brother was like the scarlet ibis? And why did the older brother say pride was the seed of both life and death? Like the school year was long enough for this crap. Gah. He finished that, and then did some algebra, and after a lunch of chicken salad sandwiches (Brendan was bored with soup and grilled cheese), he took a nap.

When Tommy woke, he could hear voices from the kitchen, and by the angle of sunlight on the wall he thought it was maybe time Pop should be home. He checked the wall clock - yeah, almost five. Pop should have been home already, but he wasn't, and Tommy shot up a quick prayer that it would maybe only be a couple of beers with the guys, just a Friday-afternoon happy hour instead of one of those damn Vietnam anniversaries. He got up to take a piss, and when he came out of the bathroom he went into the kitchen to see what was going on.

Mom was dressed in a pair of soft knit pants and a long-sleeve t-shirt, barefoot with her hair up in a clip, sitting on the high stepstool next to the counter. She was saying to Brendan, "Okay, you want to go ahead and put them in the water in the pan. Now you can cook them in beer, or cider, that adds flavor, but since I don't have a lot of extra beer we'll save that for another time. They'll be fine. Bring the water to a boil, and then turn it down to Medium-Low or even Low, depending on your stove – this one you do Medium-low – and let 'em simmer for half an hour, up to an hour."

"What's a simmer?" Tommy wanted to know, and Mom looked up and smiled at him. She looked tired, but she also looked better than she had in several days. More healthy color to her face, and the bruises were fading from purple to dark blue-green. She had a little sparkle in her eyes too.

"Good to see you up, honey," she said. "You look like you're feelin' better."

Tommy nodded. "I'm not too bad. What's a simmer?" he asked again.

"Oh, it's just when a liquid is barely below a boil. Little tiny bubbles. It's good for cooking things at a low temperature for a long time – like tough meat, or potatoes, or these sausages."

"Oh. Nice apron, man," he said to Brendan, and chucked him on the shoulder. "Goes with your shirt."

"Shut up," Brendan said, but he smiled at Tommy too. "Keepin' my clothes clean, what's wrong with that?" He stepped away from the stove, where lengths of Polish sausage were swimming in the big saucepan.

"Smells good," Tommy said. There was the sound of the Olds pulling up in front of the house, and everybody's head jerked around to that direction, like they were a herd of jumpy antelopes or something.

Mom took a deep breath and said, "Okay, now, let's get a clean cutting board and the big chef's knife, Brendan." While he was doing that, Tommy got a cup of water to wet his mouth, which had suddenly gone dry. He had to reach up to the cabinet with his left hand, but it didn't pull too hard on his right side, so that was an improvement. Mom went on talking. "And that head of cabbage that you washed, go ahead and core it and get it cut up. Not too small, mind. No, here – let me show you."

Mom started doing stuff with the cabbage, which was never Tommy's favorite vegetable, but it was just about bearable with Polish sausage. The front door opened and closed, and everybody sucked in a good breath, to prepare. Pop stopped in the living room to open the mail – they could hear the crisp ripping of paper as he opened envelopes – and then he came into the kitchen. "Hey there, boys," he said. "How's tricks, Mary Fran? Nice to see you up and doin' today." Pop stepped close to Mom and stroked her hair.

Mom smiled, but Tommy was looking right at her, and he could tell that the smile wasn't real. It was too bright, too cheerful. And too much of a horrible contrast to the bruises on her cheek and jaw and eye. Her hand was so firm on the big chef's knife that he could see the tendons taut under the skin. "Oh, not too bad. Dinner in about an hour."

"Good to know," Pop said. "Think there's a John Wayne movie on at 8 o'clock that I wanna watch. 'The Quiet Man,' you ever seen that one? The Duke as a retired boxer. He goes to Ireland."

"Haven't seen it," Mom told him.

"It's a love story," Pop said, and winked at her.

"Okay," Mom said, and patted his arm with the hand not holding the knife. "Here, Brendan, you finish this, won't you?"

Brendan took the knife and started chopping cabbage, and Pop held Mom close and gentle, stroking down her back. But Tommy could see her face, and it was wide-eyed and tense, just the way he felt himself. He turned away and got another cup of water, so Pop wouldn't see how nervous he was. "Tommy, you look like you're feelin' better too," Pop observed. "Guess we'll go do a little runnin' in the morning."

Tommy, lifting the cup to his mouth, stopped dead. He could feel his face reacting, and tried hard to stop it. "Um. Pop… I don't – I just. I don't think I can."

"Well, you're up and about. You look good. Need to get back to trainin'. Don't start goldbrickin' on me now." Pop's voice was light, like he was joking, and he was still hugging Mom like he didn't have a care in the world, but Tommy knew. God, what was he gonna say?

Mom stepped in for him. "Now, Paddy," she said, and even though she was nervous, Tommy could tell she meant business, "You let that boy alone. He's not up to it. He's not ready. You let him rest."

Pop pulled his head back and looked at her. "You gonna be in charge of his trainin' from now on, huh?"

"No. But the doctor said bruised ribs need rest. If you want him fit for Juniors, you let him alone." Mom sounded very serious.

"What doctor?" Pop said, still lightly.

"The one I went to see earlier in the week. I asked about bruised ribs, and he told me that it can take up to six weeks for them to be fully healed." Mom leaned back away from Pop and looked at him as head-on as she could, from nearly a foot below him. "Don't push him too hard."

Pop didn't move, but his shoulders looked menacing all of a sudden. "You tellin' me what to do?"

"Oh _no,_" she said, all reassuring, backing right down. "No, just givin' you some information you might not a' had. Intel is everything, you always say."

"Well, all right then." Pop turned Mom's face up to his and kissed her, and she did not resist but her little hands were in fists by Pop's side, and Tommy could read that as well as he could read how she'd suddenly got way too cheerful. She was faking.

"Well, now," she said as Pop let her go. "This isn't getting dinner ready. You want a beer, Paddy? Happy to get you one."

"I'd like that," Pop said. "Thank you."

Tommy, trying to keep things on an even keel, got Pop's big stein out of the fridge where it was keeping cold, and he poured Pop's Iron City into it, and he took it into the living room where Pop had gone to sit in his chair with the newspaper.

They got through the next ten minutes. The next half hour, the next hour. They got through dinner. Brendan talked about the academic team a little, the prospects for the upcoming year and a banquet they'd have at the end of the year. Tommy talked about the Pirates, whether Dave Clark would finish the season or not, as old as he was getting. Mom talked about the leaves starting to bud on the trees outside, outwardly all happy about spring coming, and wasn't it nice, and it just did her heart good to see the sunshine. Pop did not say much, but he looked apologetic, and he took every opportunity to pat Mom on the arm, or compliment her on dinner (even though Brendan had actually been the one cooking it.)

It would be a tightrope kind of evening, Tommy could tell. He helped Brendan clear the table and put away food, and the stretch hurt his ribs and caught him short of breath, but he did it. And then they all wound up in the living room with the TV turned to one of those classic-movies channels.

Ordinarily Tommy did not like sappy 50s movies, not at all. They were all very Hollywood, with everything cleaned up, a Technicolor pretend world where everybody was either good or bad, and conflicts happened because people didn't understand each other, not because they had moral failings. But this one wasn't all that awful. Two people in love who come from different cultures, who want to be together but have to find a way of doing that without stepping all over each other's pride.

On the screen, Irish girl Mary Kate Danaher was agitating over her fiancé's unwillingness to fight for her dowry, which she considered her rightful possession, due her by her brother. Sean Thornton, the American boxer, thought of it as "just money," and didn't think it necessary. What he wasn't getting, Tommy reasoned, was that to her it was a matter of pride, her brother's and fiancé's acknowledgement that she was a person of worth – not just a possession to be handed over from man to man. He turned his head just a little, watching Mom curled up under Pop's arm, and saw that Pop wasn't getting it either.

Mom did. She was staring at the screen as if it were a window into another world. Like she wanted to escape into it.

But at the end of the movie, the woman's fiancé and her brother wound up in a huge fistfight, and because they were evenly matched, that meant something. It wasn't a big man beating up on a little one, or on a woman, or a kid… it was these two guys coming to terms with each other and putting away their grievances, and the girl getting the respect she wanted from both of them.

"There, see?" Pop said, patting Mom gently on the leg. "She wanted her man to act like a man, and she wasn't gonna be happy until he did. She looked pretty happy at the end, didn't she?"

"Oh yes," Mom said. But Tommy, looking at her eyes, saw them blank as a window with the shades down, like she had all kinds of thoughts she was hiding.

"Well. Think I'll go to bed," Brendan said, and Tommy said, "Me too," and they went to brush teeth before going upstairs. Going back through the living room on the way to their room, they said good night to Mom and Pop, who were still curled up together on the couch. Pop had his nose in Mom's hair and his hand on her waist, and Mom's eyes were still blank, but she told them good night very warmly.

Upstairs, Tommy lay down and listened for noises from the living room. There weren't many, just Pop talking low. Brendan turned off the light. He started to say something, but Tommy shushed him. "Shut up, I wanna hear," he whispered.

"Hear what?" Brendan whispered back, but after that he stopped making noise. Tommy got off his bed and crept halfway down the stairs to listen.

Mom was speaking, soft but firm. "Paddy, I mean it. You do a good job, I know you do, but if you push him too hard now he'll never get over it. He won't recover in time for that meet." She paused just a moment. "And I won't recover from what you've done to him, if you do that."

Tommy's stomach nearly hit the floor. _Oh God. _

"You in charge now, Mary Fran? You the Head Bitch in Charge, that what you're tellin' me?" Pop asked, and his voice had gone gravelly and threatening.

"I can't live like this," Mom said softly. "I can't live like this, frightened of you. Frightened for my boys." Her voice was shaking, but Tommy could not ever remember Mom standing up to Pop this way. Ever. "You love those boys, I know you do. Don't do this to us."

"Mary Fran… I'm tryin'." And Pop's voice was strange, and lost, like a little kid. "You don't see how hard I try. But sometimes, sometimes it just… it gets away from me. I lose my self-control. Don't you see, you're the one who's doin' this to us. Everything would be all right, if you'd just do what you're s'posed to."

Mom sighed. "Honey… Paddy… I don't think you see how much it hurts us. I need you to get yourself under control, or we will go live elsewhere until you can."

There was a small silence, and Tommy, more afraid than he'd been even since the night Pop kicked him, crept down one more step. Then another.

"We have discussed this before," Pop said, and his voice was icy again. "And I thought I made it very clear that you have obligations as a wife. I thought Father Jerz made it clear to you that you have marital duties. You made promises in front of witnesses, Mary Frances. You promised in front of _God_. You goin' back on that now?"

"I said live elsewhere, not divorce you," Mom said. Her voice was shaky. "You're my husband, and I love you. I take that very seriously. But if you're gonna harm these boys, you won't be around 'em. I can promise you that. And every court in the country would back me up. Don't make me do it, Paddy."

"You are not gonna go there," Pop said, low and vicious. "You are _not_ gonna take my boys away from me. I got a legal right to them, they're _my _sons, and a moral right to 'em too. You go to lawyerin', Mary Fran, you go to talkin' to Social Services? I will put a stop to it." He must have gotten off the couch, because now Tommy could hear him stomping around the living room. "I will end it. I will end you. Don't you think I won't." Mom didn't answer.

"You put _one toe_ in the direction of that door," Pop said, "and I will find you. I will find you and bring my boys home."

"I won't let you," Mom said, and Tommy could tell how scared she was but she wasn't backing down. "I won't let you hurt them ever again." And even though this was terrifying, there was a beautiful warm glow in his chest at knowing how far Mom would go to protect him. That was love. He snuck down one more step, and now he could peek into the room and see them reflected in the window.

"You can't stop me from doin' whatever I want," Pop said. "You are my wife. Those are my boys. You ain't taking any of that away from me, you hear me, woman?" He shook her shoulders. And then he got quiet – quiet and deadly. He said, cold like he hated her, right into her face, "Don't think I won't find you and kill you, if you try to leave me. If you try to take my boys away."

Tommy couldn't breathe. _Oh God, he really means that. _He heard a rustle behind him, Brendan coming to the top of the stairs, and he held up his hand so Brendan would know not to make any noise just now.

Mom didn't move. She sat there wide-eyed and staring like Pop was a snake, all coiled up and rattling. She was frozen with terror, Tommy could see it in her face. She stared at Pop and Pop stared back, and Tommy got ready to fling himself downstairs, if he needed to.

Mom spoke again, and her voice was shaky. "Paddy, I'm not leavin' you. I'm your wife. I love you."

Pop's shoulders, tensed up where Tommy was looking at him from the back, relaxed. Pop took a deep breath, and he sighed too.

"You're not leavin'," Pop repeated, and for the first time he sounded scared, not angry. "Mary Fran… I do love you. But you gotta hold to your end of the bargain. You hold to it, and we'll get along fine."

"I'll hold to it," Mom said, and the breath went out of Tommy. Was Mom playing for time, or did she just give in again? He couldn't tell. Her voice had been strange, almost squeaking like she had something caught in her throat.

Pop sat down and swept her back into his arms, holding her tight. Tommy could see her face peeking out from under Pop's arm, though, and she looked very determined. Tommy started breathing again. He knew what had just happened, what Mom had decided, even if Pop didn't.

"Oh, God… Mary Frances…" Pop sounded choked. "Don't leave me. Please don't. I don't wanna hurt you. I need you." He turned her face up to his and began kissing her, like he was hungry for her. She let him. She let him pick her up like a bride and take her down the hall.

The light went off downstairs. The downstairs bedroom door shut.

Tommy turned around and made his way back up the stairs, shooing Brendan in front of him. He had to be careful not to make sounds, because every muscle he had was limp with fear and relief. He sort of collapsed back onto his bed.

"Think she's okay?" Brendan whispered.

"Seems so," Tommy said, and they listened hard. There were the usual kind of noises coming out of Mom and Pop's bedroom, though they were maybe slower and softer than what they were used to hearing. More romantic.

"Good," Brendan said softly. He turned over on his side, away from Tommy, and within a few moments he was snoring.

Tommy couldn't sleep for the longest time. He had to wait out the adrenaline rush, and had to fight down all the fear of what was really going to happen – but he thought Mom had made a decision tonight, to fake happiness with Pop, settle Pop's suspicions and fears, pretend everything was fine, until they could get away. There had been some kind of determination in her face, a strength he'd never seen before.

"We're really leaving," Tommy whispered into the dark, half scared it would happen and half that it wouldn't._ Oh, God, if Pop finds out._ If Pop found out what they were planning… they'd all be dead. He'd do it. Tommy knew Pop's pride, maybe even better than Brendan and Mom did, because he had it too. If somebody who was supposed to have his back betrayed him, he'd rather die than ever trust them again. Ever again.

Tommy didn't know what to pray for, or even if God would hear him, because he hadn't been to Confession in a week and he had so much to confess. He lay there and prayed and stewed and prayed some more. And eventually the noises stopped, and the house was quiet, as if it was waiting for something good to happen.

It might wait forever.

* * *

Saturday morning, not as early as usual, Pop was up the stairs humming, and then his scratchy gruff voice was saying, "Up and at 'em, kid, come on. Time to rise and shine."

Tommy, knuckling sleep out of his eyes, sat up startled, and then had to grit his teeth to keep back the groan of pain. He had to hold his side too; he was better, but not _that _much better. Sudden moves made everything hurt.

"What, you goldbrickin' on me?" Pop said, and his voice was light but there was something in it that Tommy knew meant trouble if he didn't respond.

"No," he said, and was surprised to hear how out-of-breath he sounded. "No, I just – I sat up too quick. I'm okay."

"Well, good then," Pop said. "Come on. Let's get it done."

He would have to confess before they got started, or Pop wouldn't believe him. "I don't know how much I can do today. I'll try."

"No, no, no," Pop said, and shifted his shoulders. "We don't do that, Tom. It's like Yoda says to Luke Skywalker: 'Do or do not. There is no try.' You hearin' me?"

"Yes sir. I'm gettin' up." He swung his legs out of bed, carefully, and rooted around in the drawer before he found a pair of shorts. All the good ones must have been packed, because the only pair his hand could find in the semi-dark had a hem that was unraveling. He put them on anyway, avoiding looking at Brendan.

But as soon as Pop headed down the stairs, Brendan was hissing at him. "What, are you crazy? You can't run. You can barely even walk, man. Just say no. I'll come back you up."

"What, and let him tear _your_ head off this time?" Tommy whispered back. "And take it out on Mom? No fuckity way, moron."

"I'll call the cops," Brendan said, and Tommy dropped a sock.

"No," he said, stepping to Brendan's bed fast and sucker-punching Brendan in the arm. "_No_. We'll never get outta here if you do that. 'Cept in body bags. Seriously."

"He's ashamed of himself," Brendan said. "And he should be."

"No. I'll play along until I can't," Tommy said, and went downstairs. That was what Mom was doing. What he _thought_ she was doing, anyway. When he got to the kitchen, where the light was on, he could see what he was wearing: a pair of red basketball shorts and a t-shirt from the 1993 Junior Olympics. Light blue, a little tight on him. It looked stupid. He ate the hard-boiled egg Pop gave him, drank some water, peed, and stretched, and then they headed out. "Pop?"

Pop, getting into the driver's seat of his car, stopped and looked at him.

"I can't go that fast today. I'm sorry, I just can't."

"Hmm," Pop said, and got into the car. "Let's roll, kiddo. Go slow to start with anyway. You gotta build back up. We got thirteen weeks."

Tommy took a deep breath, which hurt, and started to jog. That hurt too, but he knew his father. He ran anyway. He was way slower than usual, and it felt like he was lumbering down the block like a lame bear. By the time they'd gone three blocks, he was gasping for breath and little black specks clouded up his eyes. He stopped at the cross-street, leaning on his knees and trying to keep from groaning.

The Olds stopped, and Pop got out and came to him. "Buddy. Knock off the slackin' and let's move."

Tommy couldn't answer. He was too busy trying to suck enough air in so he wouldn't pass out, but he had to do it a small breath at a time because otherwise his ribs would splinter into a billion pieces. He was also too busy trying not to let tears fall, because it hurt like a _fucking son of a bitch_. Maybe he should just start running again, just run until he died… at least then everything would be over.

Getting no answer from Tommy was starting to piss Pop off. "Ah, now, cut it out, Tommy. Quit actin' like some candyass pussy, and get a move on, you little _shit_."

So he stood up and took three steps, four, and although he was trying not to, he had to stop and bend over onto his knees again, so he could fight the black wave crossing his vision. Then Pop's hands were on his shoulders there in the early dawn, turning him into the light from the street lamp. "Huh," Pop said, and put one hand on Tommy's back. "Deep breath, son."

"Can't," Tommy gasped, still in oxygen deficit. "Hurts."

Then Pop put his hand on Tommy's bruised ribs – not heavy, just touching him, and he couldn't help it. He groaned, loud, and bent over a little farther, trying to relieve the pressure. "Lemme see," Pop said, gently. "Lemme see, lemme see. I gotta see, son." He pulled up the edge of Tommy's shirt, and he didn't move for several seconds. He didn't say anything either, until he pulled the shirt back down. He put his hand on Tommy's shoulder again, lightly, and then he said, "Well. You're not up to it yet. Guess… you just get your breath back a minute, and then I want you to get into the car."

Tommy nodded, and swiped his arm over his face, like he was wiping sweat. Really, he was wiping tears of relief. No more running.

When he could stand up, he moved to the car and sat down on the seat, and Pop shut the door so he wouldn't have to reach for it. He shivered, feeling his sweaty shirt get cold. Pop drove them home, and opened the doors for Tommy, and when they went inside, Pop said, "Now you just lie on the couch for me, huh? Just rest. I shouldn't a' tried to make you. Not yet." Tommy lay down, trying not to shiver. Pop went into the kitchen. Tommy thought he heard Pop mutter, "Candyass," again, dismissing him. But it almost didn't matter because he was just glad he wasn't dead.

Tommy lay on the couch there, shuttling between fear and relief, and gradually relief won as the moments ticked by and Pop did not explode like a grenade. At some point he must have drifted off again, because he woke again when the sun was higher. Pop was taking the laundry basket down to the basement, whistling.

That's the way it was all day: Pop doing stuff around the house, chores that usually Mom tended to. He didn't scrub the floor, but he swept it and cleaned the bathroom and did the laundry. There was a panicky moment when Pop called up from the bottom of the basement steps, "Brendan, where's all you boys' skivvies?"

"Washed 'em already, we're good," Brendan called back. He looked at Tommy, and whispered, "God. Please knock it off. It's just an invitation to interrogate you."

"What?"

"Your _face,_ dumbass. You look terrified."

"Shut up," Tommy whispered back. It was true, he'd always had trouble hiding his feelings, try as hard as he might. He was better than he used to be, but apparently still not good enough.

Mom got up about lunchtime and made her own way into the bathroom – walking slow, but not shuffling like an old bat with a walker anymore. When she came out, she peeked into the living room and saw Tommy on the couch. "Honey, I thought you were feelin' better," she said with concern.

"Well," he said, and then closed his mouth. What could he say?

Mom was looking suspicious. "You tried to do too much, didn't you? Baby, you need to take it easy."

Pop came up from the basement carrying a basket of clean jeans, and stopped there in the living room, staring at them. _Oh shit._ Mom looked fierce, all of a sudden. "Tell me you didn't make this boy run today, Paddy. Tell me you didn't."

"Good for him to get out," Pop said.

"I'm okay," Tommy said, and sat up. _Let it go, Mom._

"You're not okay," Mom said to him, and then turned back to Pop. "I know he's tough. I know he's your son. But – " _Mom, please shut up, please, he'll figure it out. And then he'll really hurt you._

Pop cut across her as if she hadn't spoken. "I'm in charge of the boy's training. I say when he's healthy. And he ain't healthy enough to run yet. We go next week." He banged the laundry basket down on the couch. "Tommy, go ahead and fold those up while you're sittin' there. The Pirates game is on at one, so let's get a move on with lunch."

He breezed past Mom, into the kitchen where Brendan was making sandwiches. Tommy looked at Mom and shook his head, a warning. But she whispered to him anyway, "Did he make you?"

"I tried to run," he whispered back. "Made it about three blocks. Then he brought me back. I'm okay." She opened her mouth again, and he reminded her, "We gotta keep our heads down, keep things goin' smooth. Let it go, Mom."

She sighed. Nodded. "You're right."

He couldn't stand it anymore, he had to ask. "We_ are _still goin', right?" he whispered, barely loud enough for her to hear.

Mom met his eyes, very level and serious. "Yes," she whispered. "Oh yes. I'm sure now." Then she raised her voice to normal levels, so that anyone listening from outside the room could hear her. "Now you take it easy, okay, sweetheart?"

The rest of the day was quiet. Pop watched baseball, and drifted off to sleep in his armchair soon after the 9th inning. When he woke up, he told Tommy he was heading on down to the VFW for the afternoon, might be back late, and Tommy should take care of his mother. Tommy nodded, silent, and as Pop walked out the door he wasn't sure whether he should be relieved or apprehensive.

Pop's usual MO for when he'd hammered Mom a good one was to lay low for a while after, not get angry for weeks. But –

But you never knew, not for certain. And they were leaving. For_ real. _And just last night, Pop had threatened death in Tommy's hearing. It was too frightening to think about.

Brendan spent a good forty minutes on the phone after Pop left, hunched over it and talking quietly so Tommy couldn't hear anything, and after some time he turned around and covered the phone. "Hey. Go upstairs, willya? I need some privacy."

"Why don't you just go over there and see her?" Tommy wanted to know.

Brendan glared at him. "'Cause of what happened _last_ time I left the house, you idiot. _Think,_ why don't you?"

Tommy made a face, but he went upstairs. That was getting easier. But once he was up there, he started thinking about how tense Brendan's face had looked. Maybe he'd just break up with That Girl and it would all be easy. Brendan didn't like to leave loose ends, he knew. He drifted around the room for some time, staring at things: the Steelers rug. The Terrible Towel Brendan had pinned up over his bed. The Pirates pennant tacked up over Tommy's. The footlocker, the window, the trophies on the dresser. The few things that belonged to them, they'd have to leave them behind.

Compared to Mom's safety, possessions didn't mean much. He shook his head. They'd have themselves. They'd be family, but without the fear.

Pop got home at half past nine, not too bombed to demand some reheated dinner and settle in front of the TV for some stupid movie. He seemed calm. Mom was already in bed, and Tommy was yawning, when Brendan said, "Hey, Pop. I'm gonna go to church with Tess Mahoney tomorrow, if that's okay. At Sacred Heart."

Pop shrugged. "All right. What time?"

"Eleven-thirty. And I'm invited to lunch after."

"Well. Enjoy that, then. Be home by five or so." Pop sounded so relaxed that Tommy started wondering when it was that Pop had last sounded so… what was the word? Flat. Like nothing mattered. That was an odd thing. Usually he was either pissed off or excited.

Tommy went up to bed, and Brendan came upstairs fifteen minutes later. He looked agitated, and Tommy could tell from the way he moved around the room that he wasn't happy. "What's up?" Tommy asked him.

"None of your business." Tommy blinked in surprise. Brendan, on the way to turning off the lamp, sighed. "Sorry. But it's not."

"Fine," Tommy said, in a screw-you tone of voice. He was getting sick of this, Brendan having secrets with somebody else.

"Fine," Brendan snapped back.

"_Fine_."

"Oh, bite me. Now shut up and go to sleep." Brendan's voice softened. "You need your rest, if you're gonna heal up."

"Fine," Tommy said for the final time. And then, with things at least semi-normal between him and Brendan, he did go to sleep.

* * *

In the morning it was really spring. You could tell by the color of the morning sun, Tommy thought, watching stripes of sunlight creep up the wall. It was no longer the cool gray light of winter, but a rosy gold. He lay in bed and thought, for the first time in a week, of Christine Keagy. How she was. Whether she had missed him at school. It was strange to think that he didn't really miss her. Didn't really even know her, except the bubblegum taste of her mouth.

Who'd miss him, once he and Brendan and Mom were in Richmond? He had casual friends - kids he'd gone to school with, guys on the wrestling team – but the only person he really hung out with was Brendan. Brendan would miss That Girl, probably, but they were _sixteen_. Who stayed with their high school sweetheart these days? If it was True Love, like Brendan said it was, then she'd wait. And if it wasn't, they'd find other people.

Thinking about leaving brought up the thought of what Pop would do, once he found out. Tommy had been shoving that whole issue down under everything else, just so he didn't have to think about it.

What would Pop do? Would he check the bus station and the airports? Would the note Mom planned to leave on the counter, about taking Tommy to the hospital, put him off for a couple of hours, and how long would it take until Pop realized they were really gone? Would he call the police? Tommy couldn't see Pop voluntarily talking to cops. Cops asked questions, and Pop hated questions.

Would he be angry, or puzzled? Angry first, Tommy thought, and then confused, and then… God only knew… angry again, maybe. But he'd watched Pop all his life – the things that made Pop angry also made him drink. And while Pop was vitally dangerous when he was drunk and up close to you, he wasn't much good at planning. If he didn't know where they were, maybe they would be okay.

Would Pop really come after them, when they went? Tommy believed Pop when he said he would. He wasn't sure whether Pop would really kill Mom, in cold blood. Probably not. That wasn't really Pop's style. But if he got close enough, he'd hurt them all with fists, Tommy believed _that_. Pop finding them and getting close enough to hit, that could end with them just as dead as if he'd hunted them down like a sniper would.

So once they left, they couldn't come back. And they couldn't leave hints of where they were, or Pop might take it into his head to come look.

That was that.

Funny how the idea of Never Ever Coming Back made his eyes hot and his chest hurt. Stupid. But there it was, he didn't want to go either. He did, and he didn't. This was _his_ town. These were his streets, his rivers, his hills. Your eyes got used to seeing things, and they felt like home, and somewhere else wasn't home. Wouldn't ever be home.

"What are you doing over there?" Brendan asked, sleepily. "You're tossin' around like you got ants in the bed."

"Shut up." The hot feeling behind his eyes went away. "Just… just thinkin' about. You know. Bein' somewhere different."

Brendan didn't say anything.

"I don't wanna go. Well, I do and I don't," Tommy admitted.

Brendan still didn't say anything, and then when he did speak it had nothing to do with what Tommy had said. "I gotta get up," he said. "Take a shower, make some breakfast for everybody. Get ready for church." He sighed. "Pop'll sleep in today, I think. He was pretty mellow last night."

"Yeah."

Pop did sleep in. Tommy reheated the scrambled eggs with cheese when Pop came into the kitchen, scratching his chest through his undershirt. Then Pop took the breakfast tray in to Mom with a fork and a mug of coffee prepared the way Mom liked it, and he closed the bedroom door behind him. Tommy took a shower too, and spent a good ten minutes looking at himself in the mirror. His face looked better, with the bruises – far less disturbing than Mom's – going green-yellow. He could maybe get away with going to school b0y Tuesday. He snuck a glance at his right side and winced, because _those_ bruises were still deep purple-blue, with green edges. They hurt. If he could get a note for gym, he'd be okay. They'd be doing baseball, and unless it was his turn to actually do something like hit or field a ball, he would still be okay, unless somebody got the bright idea that the students should be running. Crap.

It would only be a few weeks longer, anyway. He could suck it up that long.

He sat down in front of the TV and found some golf tournament, while he went back over his World History notes. That was always good background to studying. There were some quiet noises from the bedroom, but once he determined that Mom sounded like she was okay, he stopped listening to them. He made chicken noodle soup and ham sandwiches for lunch, and then after lunch Pop decided he'd go down to Fitzy's, work out some, maybe see if he could get in on a little sparring action. He was just saying that when Brendan got home.

Pop left, mussing up Brendan's hair. Mom was dressed again, in soft clothes, and to Tommy's eyes she looked okay. A little distant, but okay. He tried to catch her eye, but she was so clearly thinking of something else that it didn't really work. Then he tried to catch Brendan's gaze, but that didn't work either; Brendan looked like he had the weight of the world on him.

Maybe Brendan broke up with Tess Mahoney. Maybe that was best anyway.

Ten minutes after Pop left in the Olds, Mom came back into the living room. "Boys," she said, and jerked her head toward her bedroom, calling them in. Thank God, she'd made up the bed, or maybe Pop had, Tommy noticed. They all sat on it. "Tomorrow," Mom said, and nodded once, firmly. "You boys all packed up?"

"Tomorrow?" Brendan repeated. "What – what, you mean, _tomorrow_ tomorrow? Like, _Monday _tomorrow?"

"That's what I said," Mom told him briskly.

"We're really goin' then," Brendan said, and he looked stunned.

"Yes," Mom said. "I couldn't even consider trying it over a weekend. Your father would have 48 hours plus to come lookin' for us, and you know he won't miss a day of work unless he has to, so Monday it is. That seems safest."

Tommy thought about it, beginning to nod in agreement. That was right. Pop would not want to waste the time off work – look at what a huge deal it had been for him to get the Friday before the state wrestling tournament off, just so he could go with Tommy to that. But tomorrow, that was awfully soon. His stomach turned over, the way it did every time he thought about it.

Mom went on talking. "We need bus tickets. I've been thinking about how we can get there, and you have to have a credit card for a rental car. That leaves a record. I can't afford to buy a car, so it's bus tickets. You can buy those with cash." She sighed. "And I suppose I'll need to go by the school and ask for several copies of you boys' transcripts. We'll need those too, and I won't want to write and ask them to be sent to wherever you wind up going to school next." She looked first at Tommy and then at Brendan. "I know it's sudden. But I think…" She trailed off and bit her lip. "I think it has to be soon. I believe him, you see, when he says he'd end me. Paddy has his pride, and I'll be spittin' all over it. We can't let that happen, and the longer I stay, the more temptation I will have to stay. We have to go."

"I know, Mom. I know." Tommy put his hand on her arm and patted. "You're right. It has to be now." Inside, his chest had that constricting feeling and his eyes were hot again, but she was right. It _had_ to happen, and it had to be _now_.

"I need more time," Brendan was saying, and he looked horrified. "I have to – I need another day. Please."

Mom was shaking her head, sadly, and Brendan started to look panicked out of his skull. "Please, Mom. Please. It's – it's my_ life,_ Mom, I need one more day. Just one. One day. _Please_."

"We'll need those transcripts anyway," Tommy said. "And time to get bus tickets. Maybe he can leave at lunch."

"No," Brendan said. "Anything weird like that, Pop will notice after the fact. If I just leave after the day is over, that's normal. That'll be enough time for me to get home and us to be gone by the time Pop knocks off at the mill."

Mom looked thoughtful. "Well… hmm."

Tommy thought of something else. "How are we gettin' to the bus station anyway? Taxi? City bus? That would be pretty noticeable, us carryin' bags onto the bus."

"Doris Leahy. I'll ask her for a ride." Mom's voice was firm and relieved. "She'll do it. I'll call her later."

"Maybe there won't be a bus to Richmond tomorrow," Brendan said. "Maybe we should wait."

"We're not waitin'," Mom said. "We go tomorrow, and that's that. If we have to go part of the way and then take a different bus, so be it." She patted Brendan on the knee. "It'll be all right, honey. You'll see."

The doorbell rang, its little cracked _bing-bong_ bell noise echoing in the living room. Everybody froze, and then Brendan went running. "I'll get it." There were voices at the door, and then Brendan poked his head back into the bedroom. "It's Mrs. Leahy."

"Oh. Well, I really must thank her for the food," Mom said, "and for – for everything." She got up, slow, bracing her arm on the wall, and Tommy followed her.

His head was still spinning at the idea that tomorrow they'd be headed south, and the conversation started out with all those polite things women seemed to say to each other, like at church. It wasn't like the other day, when Mrs. Leahy had spoken plainly… until she started doing it again. She wouldn't let Mom keep things polite and surface, she went right to the heart of things, and Tommy realized he was going to miss Mrs. Leahy too.

"I saw your man head out," Mrs. Leahy said, "and I come to tell you a few things, Mary Frances. First, I wanted to know, have you made some plans?"

Mom gave Tommy and Brendan a panicky look, and then she took a deep breath. "Yes. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Mrs. Leahy replied, in the same surprised tone of voice that he and Brendan had both used. Mom explained her reasoning again, and she hadn't even finished before Mrs. Leahy was nodding her head.

"That's sensible. I knew you had a good head on your shoulders. Now." She settled herself squarely in Pop's chair and leaned toward Mom. "I'm gonna sign over my car to you, honey. You take it. Don't you bother with bus tickets. I been wantin' me one of those darling little Mustangs for years now, and I finally got some money saved up, and I'm gonna _get_ me one. And I could trade in the LTD wagon, but you know that thing ain't worth much, not to a dealer. It's twelve years old, and it ain't so pretty, and the rear bumper's dented where Bill backed it into a street sign. It burns a little oil, from time to time, and the gas mileage isn't so great. But to you, it would be worth a lot. It runs good, and it won't catch anybody's attention at all. It'll hold a lot of things, and if worst comes to worst, you three could even stretch out in it and sleep, if you need to. It's perfect for you. I want you to have it."

Mom, so surprised her mouth was hanging open, had nothing to say for a full minute, and then she started crying.

"Hush, now," Mrs. Leahy said, and patted her hand. "I'll go ahead and sign the title over to you, and I'll leave it in the glove box. I'll keep it under my insurance for at least a year, that oughta help you out some. Keys to it will be under the floor mat, all right? And when you're ready – well, then, you just take it."

Mom wouldn't agree to that, though, and they made plans for Mrs. Leahy to drive her to the high school in the morning, and from there to the Ford dealership so Mrs. Leahy could make arrangements for a new car. And from there, they'd go straight to the DMV to fix up the new title before they took off.

Tommy felt as shocked as Mom, and as grateful, and there was absolutely no way he could say it. He looked at Brendan's face, to see how stunned his brother was, but Brendan looked blank as a fresh notebook, clearly thinking of something else.

"Now, another thing, Mary Fran." Mrs. Leahy patted her fluffy white hair. "You give any thought to maybe usin' your maiden name? Or a different name? I thought your birth name 'cause you probably have your birth certificate." Mom nodded, still looking stunned. "Well, there you go. Think about that. Don't forget to take the boys' birth certificates with you."

"Right," Mom said, finally finding her voice and then starting to cry again. "Oh, Doris… I just – why would you do this for me? For us?"

"You been a good friend to me," Mrs. Leahy said. "'Specially after Bill died and my girls were all off with their own families. But also, because I know how bad things can get sometimes. I had me a good girlfriend, back when we was young. Betty Gallimore. And her husband killed her. Mean as a snake, when he got liquor in him." Tommy shuddered involuntarily, and without even looking at him Mrs. Leahy put out her hand and patted his shoulder where he was sitting on the floor near the couch. "She left two little ones behind. I don't want that to happen to anybody."

"Oh, Doris," Mom said, and collapsed crying onto Mrs. Leahy's shoulder.

Mrs. Leahy let her cry, with her baggy old-lady arms around Mom. Finally she patted Mom's back. "Hush, now. Hush on up, sweet girl. You got your good boys right here, and they'll look after you. You can let me know your address when you get settled, all right? Put Betty Gallimore on the letter and I'll know who it is. And I'll never pass a word to your man. Not one. Trust me on that."

Tommy couldn't stop shaking his head in wonder. And when Mrs. Leahy finally got up to go, Tommy hugged her. He couldn't help it. He couldn't help wishing that Mrs. Leahy had been his grandmother. She looked a little teary when he let go. She'd already headed for the door when Tommy had an idea. "Hey, Mrs. Leahy – can I come put our bags in your car right now? So we don't look strange tomorrow when we leave, in case anybody notices us leaving. Or maybe put 'em in a big box, like we're sending some things to Goodwill along with yours."

"That's a good idea, young man," Mrs. Leahy said, and Mom nodded. "But I don't think you should carry the box – you need to be resting those ribs."

"I'll do it," Brendan said, and got an approving pat from Mrs. Leahy. He went down to the basement for an empty box, then went upstairs for the bags, and then he hauled the box out to Mrs. Leahy's POS white station wagon, saying out loud for the benefit of any neighbors within earshot, "Thanks for takin' that old stuff to Goodwill, Mrs. Leahy."

"No trouble, son. Glad to see your mama feelin' better." Mrs. Leahy waved to Mr. Greiner down the street, out already cutting his grass even though it was only the tail end of March, and got into that ugly car and drove away.

Brendan came back in and collapsed on the couch next to Mom. Tommy couldn't read his face. There was a little silence.

"I'm so tired," Mom said, and sat on Pop's favorite chair. "I have just got to get some rest. We got any more Advil, Brendan? I started taperin' down on those pain pills, but I got to take something. I've done too much today."

"Sure do," Brendan said, and started to get up.

"No, no, I'll do it," Mom said. "And then I'm takin' a nap. Boys – take me seriously now. Not a hint of anything wrong to your father. Everything is normal. _Normal,_ you got it? I know you're good at it, I know you've been doin' it for far longer than any child should have to. But this is deadly important, my darlings.

"About tomorrow… Brendan, you say you want to go to school one more day, and I suppose it's all right, as long as we are gone by the time your father gets home from work. You get out at three, and we will meet you in the grocery store parking lot, the one near the school, as soon as possible after that. I won't go to the school and have somebody report it later."

"Got it," Brendan said. He still didn't look happy. "By, oh, three-thirty at the latest. Right?"

"At the latest," Mom said. "And I don't like waitin' that long, but I understand that you want to see your friends again. Not a word to them, I don't have to warn you."

Brendan bit his lip. "No," he agreed.

"Tommy, you want to go one more day too?" Mom asked.

"No, Mom." He didn't care. "If it was up to me, we'd be outta here by nine in the morning."

Brendan shot him a glare, but didn't say anything.

"It will be all right," Mom said. "As long as we leave by three-thirty. That is our drop-dead time, zero hour. That's the very last minute before we go. If you're not there, we'll have to leave you behind," she said, making an exaggerated face to show she was joking.

"Should be plenty of time," Tommy agreed. It only took five minutes to get outside the school when the final bell rang, and that happened at 2:55. Then a ten-minute walk, maybe, if you went slow and the traffic was against you all the way. "We'll be waiting."

Brendan nodded. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Three-thirty."

Tommy stretched, carefully. "Man. I got all kinds a' time if I ain't trainin'. Too bad I don't feel like doin' anything with it."

Brendan nodded again.

"Well, come on into the kitchen and pack up some food, then," Mom said to Brendan. "Put it in Tommy's backpack. Nothing perishable… some fruit… peanut butter… you know."

"I know, Mom," Brendan said.

So Brendan and Tommy stuffed the backpack full of crackers and jarred applesauce, cans of tuna and chicken, peanut butter, apples, bread, and some water bottles. Mom took her Advil and went to lie down, and every time Tommy said something to Brendan, Brendan nodded absently and didn't reply. They got done with that, and Brendan turned to Tommy and said abruptly, "I'm goin' for a walk. Feel like it?"

"Nope," Tommy told him, though he wanted to go. Yesterday had about done him in. Plus, his face was still bruised up. People might ask questions.

He did want to go. Wanted to say goodbye to his city… the playground, the church, the rolling acres of Allegheny Cemetery, which would now be covered in spring blooms… the rivers. The stadium. All the bridges he'd become so intimately acquainted with, the ones Pop had run him across time after time. The Clemente Bridge, the Hot Metal Bridge. The trains. The church bells. Everything that said _Pittsburgh, _he'd miss it so much.

But walking in it today would not be practical. And if he couldn't fix it, he would just have to deal with it. That was that.

Brendan went out.

Tommy, for lack of anything better to do, went flipping through the stories in his English textbook. Then he walked around the living room staring at photos on display. There weren't many. One of Mom and Pop on their wedding day, one of Tommy and Brendan at Junior Olympics wearing medals. One of Pop's parents and his sister. Brendan's most recent school photo, and Tommy's. That was it. There was a photo album on a shelf in the kitchen, though, and Tommy leafed through it too.

There was a picture of him and Brendan from a couple of years ago, before Brendan hit that big growth spurt. They were sitting on the front step, and Brendan had an arm around Tommy. Tommy was leaning into his big brother, and they both had wide smiles.

Pop never went through that album, Tommy knew. Before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled the photo out of the plastic sleeve, and tucked it into the front pocket of the backpack. Stupid, he knew, because he'd have Brendan with him – but still. He just wanted it, that was all. It wouldn't take up too much space.

Brendan came back at dusk, walking slow up the stairs and his mind clearly elsewhere. Mom woke up. Tommy was thinking of leftovers from last night, but Mom said it might be better to leave something edible in the fridge, and that seemed wise. So Brendan made bacon and eggs again, and they thawed out some frozen berries from a package in the freezer.

The food didn't go down easy, past the lump in Tommy's throat.

They watched another stupid movie, some Disney kid cartoon thing, after dinner. Tommy would have liked to have gone walking all over the city, just to keep his nerves down, but he still didn't feel up to it. They sat together on the couch, piled up on each other like a litter of puppies, and laughed at Sebastian the Crab. It felt good but it didn't take away their fear. Pop was gone awfully late, and that was_ never_ good.

Pop came home at ten-thirty, though. Drunk, of course. But not too feisty, that was a relief. He was singing some mangled lyrics from what seemed to be "Bridge over Troubled Water," of all things, and he kept repeating the part about being down and out and on the street. Didn't sound like Pop at all, or lyrics that would stick in his head. Anyway, they got him into bed and set the alarm for Monday morning, but Tommy didn't relax until he heard Pop snoring, at quarter after eleven.

Brendan – who'd been jumpy all evening – took a shower, and then, instead of putting on sleep clothes, tossed on jeans and a t-shirt, and his Steelers hoodie up in the privacy of their bedroom.

"Whatcha doin', man?" Tommy asked him, completely baffled.

"Goin' to see Tess," Brendan said. He shot Tommy a glance out of the corner of his eye. "Mom knows. I told her."

"How you gettin' home? The buses quit running at midnight."

"Walk if I have to. If she – well, she was going to try to borrow her brother's car. Maybe she'll bring me home."

Tommy, looking at the bleak expression on his brother's face, shut up then. Last goodbye. Well, That Girl might be a nosy, do-gooder miss-priss, but she at least deserved a chance to kiss Brendan one last time. He nodded. "Be careful."

"See ya."

Tommy, hearing the front door click closed, turned out the light, but he couldn't sleep. He was too excited, and too apprehensive. He started to think about Richmond. This time tomorrow they'd be there. Wouldn't they? Six hours' drive, leaving by half past three… yeah. Even if they stopped a couple of times.

And by Tuesday? A Virginia spring. A new apartment, and nobody with quick fists living in it. A fresh start.

He finally dozed… and startled awake later, with Brendan's alarm clock glowing 3:43 AM in red letters. Pop would be getting up in an hour. The quiet footsteps on the stairs came closer. "Brendan?"

"Relax, it's me." Tommy could hear him pulling off his clothes, kicking off his shoes. There was a fresh outside smell to him, and a faint whiff of Tess' perfume as well, cold and flowery.

"You say goodbye?" Brendan didn't answer. "I mean, did you tell her we were goin'?"

"I don't wanna talk about her, Tommy."

"Okay. You all packed? Everything you want?"

"Mm-hm." Brendan got into bed, the covers rustling.

"Feels weird to think we ain't ever comin' back."

Brendan took so long to answer that Tommy had given up on him, by the time he did say something. "I know." His voice was choked and thick. "Go to sleep, Tom."

* * *

Pop did not try, thank God, to wake Tommy up for a run in the morning. And Brendan overslept, and it was only Mom's voice calling up the stairs that woke them. Brendan tossed on clothes, grabbed a piece of buttered bread for breakfast, and gave Mom a long hug even though he was running late. He kissed her cheek, and then dashed out the door with his shoelaces untied, racing for the bus. "Don't forget!" Tommy yelled after him. "Giant Eagle parking lot."

"I'll be there!" Brendan yelled back, and then the bus pulled away and he was gone.

Tommy and Mom made breakfast together, and straightened up the house as best they could. Tommy watched her staring around the house, looking at things. The wall clock Pop had given her as an anniversary present not long after they were married, the dishes that had been her mother's, the quilt on her bed.

"I'm not sorry," she said out loud, when she noticed Tommy noticing, "to be leaving these things behind. I'm only sorry I didn't leave them behind years ago."

He wanted to ask her why she hadn't, but maybe another day he would. For now, he just nodded and watched her. He went upstairs to his room one more time and looked at the trophies on the dresser, the gold and black sports stuff all over the walls. Steelers and Pirates and Penguins, they'd always be his teams, no matter where he was.

Those trophies, he didn't need them. He had what it took to earn more trophies, and he'd be carrying that inside him. He wondered what the wrestling teams would be like in Virginia.

He went downstairs to the bathroom and filled a zippered bag with toiletry stuff: shampoo, fresh toothbrushes and toothpaste, deodorant, soap, all the backup stash Mom usually bought so that there would be a new whatever when you used up something. Pop would never notice that being gone. Brendan's Old Spice and Mom's shampoo, those would still sit on the counter.

Towels, should he take those? Pop would notice. Sure, sooner or later he'd notice that his family was gone, too. But the longer it took him, the more head start they'd have.

"Mom? You wanna put anything in here?" He stuck his head into her bedroom, where she was touching things on her dresser.

"Oh… maybe just a few things," Mom said. She put a small bottle of makeup and two lipstick tubes in his bag. Her hand hovered over her Wind Song perfume, and then she said almost to herself, "No. Fresh start." She picked up two necklaces and a ring Tommy had never seen her wear, and put them into her purse. "These are gold. I can sell them. None of my other jewelry is real."

The phone rang. Their eyes met, and Tommy knew that it would be Pop on the phone. Pop, checking up on them on his lunch break.

It was. Mom told Pop in this super-cheery voice that she felt much better, but she would be taking Tommy to the clinic to have his ribs looked at, and she didn't know how long it would be before they got an appointment. "What's for dinner? Ohhh… um… maybe beef roast. I'll have to see what's on sale at the market." There was a pause, and then Mom said, "You too," with a noticeable quaver in her voice. She hung up, and stood there for a minute with one hand on the phone. Then she took a deep breath and turned around to face Tommy.

"Are you ready?" she asked him. "It's time. Mrs. Leahy should be here in a few minutes."

Tommy nodded, not trusting his voice.

A car pulled up outside, and Mom picked up her purse and her long cloth raincoat. She'd covered some of the bruises on her face with makeup, just so they would be less noticeable, but she still looked like a woman who'd survived a war. Maybe she had, Tommy thought. He grabbed his navy hoodie off the coat rack, and Brendan's Steelers hoodie too, since Brendan hadn't had time to take a jacket with him this morning.

They went across the Highland Park Bridge, across the Allegheny, a twenty-minute drive that Tommy spent staring at his city out the window. Right there in the parking lot, Mrs. Leahy signed the title of the wagon over to Mary Frances Riordan, and then she went into the office and came out with a whole stack of paperwork and some keys.

"Already did all the hard work this morning," she said, smiling and nodding at a bright-red Mustang at the end of a row of new cars. "Certified Used, took a chunk off the askin' price. It's only two years old. I paid about half down, and the rest isn't too bad on the monthly payment."

"Oh, let's see you in it!" Mom cried, and Tommy was astounded at how excited she was. Mrs. Leahy did look funny in it, what with the white poodle hair and her knit old-lady pants, but she looked happy, too, and Tommy had to grin.

"Can't wait for my girls to see me in this vehicle! Come on," Mrs. Leahy said. "Let's go on to the DMV now so we can title these cars." Seemed funny for Mrs. Leahy to refer to her daughters, who were parents of teenagers themselves, as her "girls," but she did it all the time. Maybe it was a grandmother thing, Tommy thought.

Mom, who very rarely drove, seemed awkward in the driver's seat, but they got to the DMV without any trouble, and Tommy actually enjoyed riding shotgun for once. They went inside, and while they were waiting, Mrs. Leahy told Mom that she'd put some household things in the back for them – some old dishes and utensils, some cooking things, sheets and towels and basic things.

"Now don't you fuss about it," Mrs. Leahy said. "Katie and Barbara are always after me to use the good things and not keep usin' the old ones. 'Take the old sheets to Goodwill, Ma,' they keep saying. 'Use the good china while you can appreciate it.' So that's what I did. I gave you some things I woulda given away anyway, so stop tellin' me it's too much. It's not one bit a' skin off my nose, dear, so don't fuss. And it's a lot less clutter in my house, too, so you're doin' _me _a favor. I'm 72 years old, and someday my girls will have to clean that house out. Might as well make it easier on 'em while I can."

"Oh, Doris," Mom said.

"No tears. Dry 'em up." Mrs. Leahy reached over and chucked Tommy on the shoulder. "There it is! Goodness, if I were a teenage girl, I'd love for you to show me that wonderful smile, young man." The smile stretched Tommy's lip, where it had only recently healed, but it felt good. "Mind you, I was a looker back then," she said, and winked.

Tommy laughed out loud, even though he couldn't imagine it. "I bet you were."

After the title had been issued to Mom and Mrs. Leahy had stopped by her insurance office and made sure that the coverage on the wagon would hold for another year, they went and had lunch, quick fast food stuff that Tommy hadn't had in… gosh… probably a couple years, since he started training in earnest. It tasted great.

And after that, they went their separate ways, Mrs. Leahy giving each of them heartfelt embraces and an admonition to write her as if Mom's name were Betty Gallimore. Mom promised to do that. Mom and Tommy drove to the high school, and when they parked she turned to Tommy. "You wanna go in while I get the transcripts?"

"Not really," he said. What he didn't say was that if he did go in, somebody might feel it necessary to report some domestic violence.

"All right," she said, and got out of the car. Despite the bruises on her face under the makeup, she looked pretty and businesslike, and there was a confidence to the way she walked that was completely new. He felt proud of her. She was back half an hour later with two big envelopes and a calm smile. "Got 'em. No trouble at all. Mr. Trumbower wished us good luck, and mentioned to me that of course parent visits were confidential."

"Good for you," he told her.

By then, it was nearly two-thirty, so they drove the two blocks to the grocery store parking lot. It was a good spot for a rendezvous with Brendan, since it was close to the high school and not on any of Pop's usual after-work routes. They sat for a while, watching people walk in and out of the store. Tommy fiddled with the radio and found a pretty good station, one that played the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Goo Goo Dolls.

They sat and waited. 2:45. The radio played Collective Soul, and Hootie and the Blowfish. It played Oasis and The Presidents of the United States of America.

3:00. The radio played Green Day and the Gin Blossoms and Soul Asylum.

At 3:10, Tommy started looking for Brendan's blue t-shirt, coming toward them down Forward Avenue. The radio played Alanis Morissette and Collective Soul.

No Brendan yet.

3:15. The radio played Bush and Matthew Sweet. No Brendan yet.

3:20, an old Tom Petty song on the radio and no Brendan. Tommy was getting jumpy. It shouldn't take this long.

3:25, Live and Pearl Jam on the radio and still no Brendan. He wanted to get out of the car and look, but that would be a bad idea.

3:28, Better Than Ezra on the radio, and Mom muttering under her breath, "This _music_," and checking her watch every thirty seconds. "I hope he hurries up," she said out loud. "We really need to go. I hope he didn't – "

She stopped, and Tommy pounced right on it. "Didn't what? Hope he didn't what? Hope he – Mom. Whaddya mean?"

She sighed. "I know he was feeling very torn last night when we were talking about it. I think he and Tess have gotten closer than you imagine, honey, and he didn't want to leave her."

"Well, _he_ can't stay if we're leavin'," Tommy said. "That's just stupid." If Brendan stayed and they left, what would Pop do to him? Not to mention, how would they get along without Brendan?

"He told me he would be here," Mom said, almost to herself, and her eyebrows were pinched together. "He said he would. He was ninety percent certain, he said."

Ninety percent? How did that square with "I'll be there," what Brendan had said to Tommy just this morning?

3:32. No Brendan. Melissa Etheridge on the radio, pouring out angst. "Honey? Please stop jiggling your leg, it's making me nervous," Mom said. Tommy forced himself to stay still, but it was sheer torture. His stomach was jittery.

3:36, and Pop would be on his way home already. Blues Traveler on the radio. Tommy was seeing all kinds of things in his head: Pop parking the Olds out front, heading inside, not finding anyone there. Getting worried, getting angry. Calling the cops to look for his missing kids.

3:40. The band called Live on the radio, "Lightning Crashes," and Tommy was full-on nauseated with worry now.

"Tommy," Mom said, and she sounded sick too. "We have to –"

"Can't we wait? Just a few more minutes? Or start driving toward the high school and see if he just got detained?"

Mom sucked in a big breath. "We can do that." Her voice was shaky. "We can go down Forward and then to I-376 East. That will work." She started the wagon and started driving, slow, toward the school, up Forward Avenue.

No Brendan.

She turned onto Shady Avenue, but not a single one of the kids walking toward them was Brendan. Mom slowed down, and the car behind them honked. They passed the school, and Mom said, "I don't know what to do. I don't know… oh, Tommy. If he's not coming – "

"He's comin'," Tommy insisted, fast, because he could not allow anything other than that to be true.

"If he's not coming," Mom repeated, "we can't go to Richmond. I don't think he'd tell your father on purpose, but I know how Paddy is. Sooner or later he'll get it out of Brendan, and we can't be there then."

Tommy's stomach flipped over completely, and he had a flash of Pop's booted foot coming at him hard. He shuddered.

Mom kept driving, slow, along Shady Avenue, and then Tommy saw him, from the back.

Blue t-shirt, blond hair, Brendan's wrestler shoulders, Tommy knew the shape of him before he was close enough to recognize him clearly – and Brendan was holding hands with That Girl.

Walking _away_ from the Giant Eagle. Walking _away_ from I-376 East. Walking, unless Tommy had his geography messed up, toward That Girl's house in Squirrel Hill South.

His stomach flipped over again. "Mom, stop. Stop! There he is."

"I can't stop!" Mom said, sounding panicky. "This is a major road, I can't stop and there aren't any parking spaces."

"Drive slower," Tommy ordered, and he was surprised at the commanding tone coming out of his mouth but didn't have time to wonder at it. He rolled the window down and yelled, "Brendan!"

Brendan half turned around, and he saw them. They were coming up on him way too fast, and then they were right next to him, and Tommy got a good look at the way Brendan was holding hands with That Girl, like he'd never let her go. Her mouth was open in surprise, but Brendan's jaw was set and he was shaking his head at Tommy.

Then they were past him, and Brendan waved.

He waved, not big and panicky like, "HEY STOP GET BACK HERE DON'T FORGET ME!" but like, "See ya. Goodbye. Nice knowin' ya," and Tommy couldn't breathe. He didn't understand, he'd never understand, _why wasn't Brendan coming? _Tommy hung practically out the big front window of the station wagon, turned back looking at Brendan, and Brendan lifted the hand he had entwined with That Girl's hand, as if to say, "This is why. This is what I choose."

Mom slowed down again. Another car honked behind them. She turned the radio off.

"Pull over," Tommy kept saying to Mom. "Pull over, _pull over,_ we gotta stop."

"I can't," she said, and she was in tears. "I can't. And he isn't coming. He is choosing to stay."

"Didn't you _see_ him?" Tommy demanded, as she kept going, slowly, and Brendan and That Girl kept walking, getting farther away. "Stop, Mom!"

"I saw him wave goodbye," Mom said, and she changed lanes.

"What are you _doing?_" Tommy asked, still trying to hang out the window and make COME ON! gestures at Brendan, but it was tough when she was driving in the left lane. "We turn right to get on 376 East!"

"We can't go that way," Mom said, and wiped her face. She sniffled, and then her voice sounded firm. "Roll the window up, Tommy. He's not coming."

"He has to!" _I need him_, Tommy was thinking._ I need him._

"He's not coming," Mom repeated gently, and turned left onto Beacon St. They drove on Beacon and made the left turn onto Hobart, which became Panther Hollow, and then near downtown became Boulevard of the Allies, and Tommy was still trying to understand it, Brendan ditching them. He couldn't quite wrap his head around it.

_Brendan bailed on us. Brendan abandoned us to stay with That Girl._

_He can't._

_But he just did._

He shook his head, completely at sea, and Mom looked over at him. She reached for the dashboard and clicked the radio on, as they merged onto Penn Lincoln Parkway, which turned into I-376_ West_.

It was the Stone Temple Pilots, with "Interstate Love Song," a song he'd always loved and never really heard the lyrics before. He was hearing them now, echoing in his head and intertwined with his confusion:

"_Leaving on a southern train,  
only yesterday you lied.  
Promises of what I seemed to be,  
only watched the time go by,  
all of these things you said to me."_

Mom merged into the traffic on the Fort Pitt Bridge, heading over the Monongahela, like a pro, not letting the maniacal lane-changing that people had to do to get to their downtown exits rattle her in the least. _Brendan picked That Girl. Instead of Mom and me._

_"Breathing is the hardest thing to do.  
With all I've said and  
all that's dead for you,  
you lied – goodbye."_

Mom just kept driving, her full lower lip between her teeth but not breaking a sweat. _Brendan picked the Old Man instead of me. _

That hurt. That hurt, bad. And it was scary as all fucking hell, too. Tommy wasn't the smart one. He'd never been the smart one, that was Brendan.

"_Leaving on a southern train,  
only yesterday you lied.  
Promises of what I seemed to be,  
only watched the time go by,  
all of these things I said to you."_

Mom drove that big-ass ugly old station wagon so smoothly in the midday traffic, down into the Fort Pitt Tunnel, under the fluorescent lights, and the radio station went to static, _just like Bren and me, static. Noise. Nothing. _

Tommy felt sick with apprehension, and his chest hurt like he was going to die.

_Holy God, what am I gonna do without him?_

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so this is long. And it took forever to write. And I was pretty much hating life while I did it… thanks for sticking around to wait for it. I appreciate that more than I can say.**

**I would like to note, for the record, several things: **

**I apologize for the delay in posting this installment. At some point, my computer ate **_**every single word**_** of this chapter. GAH. The chapter subtitle, just in case you didn't recognize it, is from The National's song "Start a War," which is the opening music for "Warrior." However, I began referring to this chapter as The Ninth Circle of Hell, because it was so freakin' awful to write.**

**My deep thanks to Nik216 and especially to Wynter S Coming, for not letting me quit.**

**You can find "The Scarlet Ibis" to read online, if you do a search for it. The author is James Hurst; it was published in 1960. In case you're one of the twelve American kids whose high school literature curriculum didn't contain it, or you're _not_ an American born after 1960, I'll warn you that it's sad. The first option that appears when I search on Google is a truncated version, so ignore that one. The story should start with the phrase, "It was in the clove of seasons…" The full text is at a site with "wednet dot edu" in the title.**

**The John Ford film "The Quiet Man" was sort of a revelation for me. I'd been looking for simply a John Wayne movie for Paddy to want to watch, thinking Paddy would be a big fan of The Duke, and I considered "Sands of Iwo Jima" as well as some of those classic Westerns, but then I ran across mention of 1952's "The Quiet Man," set in the 1920s, in which Wayne plays an Irish-American boxer from Pittsburgh who, having killed a man in his last fight, decides to return to his birth place in Ireland to try to find peace – where he falls in love with a lovely spitfire of a colleen played by Maureen O'Hara. "The Quiet Man" is not even**_** remotely **_**the same sort of movie as "Warrior," and if you can get past the four-minute sequence where Wayne drags O'Hara across miles of Irish turf, following her attempt to leave him since he won't man up and demand her dowry, to go accost her brother for it (his character is finally taking up her challenge), it's a feel-good sort of film. But the struggles of culture, family, returning home, trauma of violent death, gender equality and the role of violence leading to catharsis of emotion turned out to have nearly-unbelievable similarity, to the themes of "Warrior." Whoa.**

**The Giant Eagle on Forward Avenue in Pittsburgh is now closed, but it really was only two blocks from the high school.**

**When I get creatively blocked, I research. Compulsively. Therefore, you get bizarrely academic author's notes, like this one. Sorry about that.**

**The other reason it took me so darn long to update? I cried - a _lot_. It was utterly wrenching to write. I kept having to go back to the end of the movie, to see Brendan with his arms around Tommy, just to sustain the will to live. At one point I downloaded a still showing them together and kept it displayed on my computer, so I could write with some hope.**


	10. Chapter 10: The Flight Begins

**The Flight Begins**

Tommy stared out the window, not seeing anything. It might be his last look at Pennsylvania, maybe for years if not for ever, but he couldn't even focus on the scenery rushing past him. What he kept seeing was in his mind, two pictures of his brother that kept flipping from one to the other: Brendan with his arm around Tommy when they were younger, and Brendan lifting up his hand entwined with That Girl's hand.

Tommy's Brendan, and That Girl's Brendan.

He still couldn't understand it. His brother choosing a girl, _a girl_, somebody Brendan hadn't known all that long, over family? Choosing their father the angry drunk instead of sweet Mom?

Knowing how much they needed him?

Knowing that they'd never come back?

Tommy didn't know how Brendan could have done that. He found himself shaking his head, over and over. _He said he'd be there. He lied to me. _

His puzzlement slowly began to make room for some other kind of feeling – fear. He was too young, he couldn't do adult things the way Brendan could. He didn't even have a driver's license. He could read a map and pump gas, he knew some basic engine maintenance, and he knew how to pay for things with cash. If he didn't have busted ribs, he could even change a tire.

But decisions… he wasn't so great at those. And his mom had surprised him over the last few days, making a tough decision like that and being so firm, but he'd be willing to bet that when something less crucial than her wellbeing and Tommy's was on the line, she'd waffle and second-guess herself and wonder and worry. And he couldn't reassure her the way Brendan could, because there were so many things he just didn't know. He didn't even know what it was that he didn't know.

He got sick of letting his brain chase those two thoughts around, like the monkey and the weasel in that stupid nursery song: _Brendan picked the Old Man and The Girl, _and _I don't know what the hell I'm doing_. So he lifted his eyes and really looked out the window this time, to notice with some minor surprise that they were no longer going straight west on I-376. No, they were actually going south on I-79 and had been for at least fifteen minutes or so, maybe twenty. Okay, so if they were going south, they could still wind up in Virginia. Or Tennessee, or North Carolina, or even further in that direction.

But just north of Washington, PA, there was a sign for I-70 West, and Mom took the ramp to merge onto it. She did it as smoothly as she had negotiated all the other driving, which was kind of amazing given that they only had one car and Pop did the driving of it. All the time, as far back as Tommy could remember. "Where're we goin', Mom?" he asked her.

"West," she said, and passed a Volvo.

"West where?"

It took her a moment to answer. "I don't know yet, just west from here. Is there a map?"

He leaned forward and opened the glove box. Here, too, Mrs. Leahy had prepared well. There was a Pennsylvania map, one for New York, one for Virginia/West Virginia, and a note printed in shaky old-lady letters that said, "ATLAS UNDER PASSENGER SEAT." He dug under the seat and found the book, too large to fit in the glove box. "Okay, so we're… west on I-70. Next city looks like Wheeling, West Virginia. And then Columbus. It'll take us to…" He followed the route of the interstate with his finger. "Indianapolis. And then…"

Suddenly, looking at the map was just scary as hell, all that blank space to the west of Indianapolis, with only a few cities. He was used to the East, where you could barely go two hundred miles without running into another city and a zillion little towns. But going west like this, it was like heading into emptiness. He could even see it in his mind already: nothing but farmland and empty skies.

"How long will it take us to get to Indianapolis?" Mom asked, calmly driving.

"Um. Let me see if I can figure it out." He knew _how_ to do it, but he didn't really have anything to measure the distance with other than his finger. "Okay, so we just passed the town of Washington… looks like about 325 miles. Probably not real accurate, but close enough. So, at 65 miles an hour…" He did math in his head. "Um, like five and a half hours, maybe six. Something like that."

"Thank you, honey," Mom said. "I'll drive as long as I can, and we'll see how close we can get to Indianapolis."

"Okay," he said. They'd been on the road about half an hour already. Amazing how far you could get from home so fast._ If we'd gone south for six hours we'd end up in Richmond. Six hours east, that's New York City. North, we'd be in, like, Toronto._

Richmond. His heart gave a sudden stutter. _Brendan_. Brendan should have been with them. He fussed with the atlas, turning pages, to hide the sudden storm of feeling that swept over him. What are we gonna do without Brendan?

The longer Mom drove, the more tired she seemed. She made Tommy play road trip games with her, things she seemed to have just made up. Like finding double letters on license plates, and then spelling their names out with letters on street signs (for fairness, Mom said she'd use "Mary Fran" and he'd be "Thomas R"). Then it was guessing how long it would be before they saw the next McDonald's sign, but all that did was make him hungry. Mom laughed, and when they stopped to get 20 bucks' worth of gas, she made them peanut butter and apple sandwiches.

Even though he was hungry, the sandwich stuck in Tommy's throat. He missed Brendan so bad his throat kept closing up, and he was scared. What would happen when Pop got home? Brendan wouldn't sell them out to Pop, he was pretty sure, but still, there was sure to be a limit on how long Brendan could hide what he knew. Which was, Mom had said, the reason they weren't going to Richmond. How drunk would Pop get, and how hard would he be on Brendan?

"Sweetheart," Mom said gently, "eat. You need the fuel. We have a long way to go, and even though we're just sitting, driving tires people out." He looked up at her, and he could see that the makeup on her face had worn off, letting her bruises show through. She moved like she was stiff, and when she tipped up the bottle of ibuprofen onto her open palm, there were four pills instead of two. She must have been really hurting.

He nodded, blinking hard to keep the tears back._ Brendan should be here. Brendan could be driving part of the time instead of Mom._ He choked down the sandwich with a bottle of water, and used the gas station's restroom. Mom came out of the ladies' room with a little more makeup on, and he could actually see her pull herself up, change her worried posture into something more confident. Had to be for his benefit. It made the back of his throat ache again, so he determined that if Mom could be brave, so could he. No use letting them get defeated, not yet.

Because he was damn sure not going back. No.

And he had an idea, too. "Hey," he said to his mother, holding out his hand. "How about you let me drive for a little while, huh? I drove around some at ho – around the school parking lot, and I'm decent at it. The traffic ain't all that bad, anyway. You let me drive for an hour or so, and you relax."

"Oh, Tommy," Mom said, and she blinked hard too, and he knew if they didn't get that under control they would just sit here being miserable.

"Come on, _please,_" he begged in his best little-kid tone of voice, the one he used to use to beg for bubble gum at the grocery store.

She smiled. "All right. Just for a little while."

"Right," he agreed, and she handed over the keys.

Driving the wagon was like steering a boat. It was big and it didn't respond quickly, so he would have to keep that in mind, but it still felt safe. All that good Bethlehem steel in it. He got Mom to relax up against the window, once she had seen he was doing okay with driving, and she was out like a light in ten minutes. He felt okay about it – the only problem would be if he wrecked, or somebody wrecked into him, and if a cop saw. He looked old enough to have a learner's permit anyway.

After about ninety minutes he was getting sleepy too, and it was past eight, starting to get dark. He pulled over at the next exit, and the change in speed woke Mom up, but he reassured her right away that everything was fine. "It's just, it's gettin' dark. Thought maybe you'd better take over now."

"I feel better," Mom said. "I think I can go a little while longer, and then we'll… we'll – oh, we'll find a truck stop and just sleep in the car there. That okay with you?"

"Sure." He didn't even have to ask why: they'd planned for a short one-day trip, and now here they were, running west flat out with no clear destination in mind. $500 was not going to last them long.

They had, several hours ago, left the mountains he was accustomed to seeing, and the countryside had flattened out. It wasn't the emptiness he'd imagined, but it was strange, not having mountains for his eyes to rest on. As it got dark outside he just looked at farmland and small towns passing by outside the window, the numbness in his chest spreading throughout his body. He did not think, did not allow himself to think, about what might be happening at 5149 Hillcrest St. in Pittsburgh.

It got darker, and the lights went on, and Mom kept driving, and it was nearly ten pm when she said, "There's one. There's a truck stop," and pointed to a Flying J Travel Plaza sign. They hadn't quite got to Indianapolis yet, but it seemed okay to Tommy – clearly on the outskirts of the city, and well-lit but not crammed full of people yelling and drinking in the parking lot. It seemed quiet, with lots of burly guys in trucker hats walking around purposefully.

"Looks okay to me," Tommy said, though he did wonder how they'd get any sleep with all the light pouring into the car.

"All right then," Mom said, and parked in the area for cars. "Let's take our toiletries bag with us – we'll go in and get a few things, and we'll get set for the night."

Tommy trailed her into the convenience store and watched her pick up a vehicle windshield shade big enough to fit the station wagon, plus some duct tape. Then she went to the cooler and bought two small bottles of milk, and bought all of it. The clerk told her when she asked about the restrooms that they were welcome to use them, though showers would be $8 apiece. "Just this for now," Mom said. "Thank you."

She handed Tommy one of the bottles of milk. "Drink that, you ain't had any since breakfast." Nonplussed, he drank it and then fished in the bag for his toothbrush and toothpaste.

Back at the car, he watched Mom tape the shade up in the windshield, and then she pulled sheets out of the boxes in the back of the car and they taped those up over the other windows._ Good thing Mrs. Leahy packed a lot of sheets,_ he was thinking. There were blankets too, but Mom handed him one of those to wrap up in. They shoved the boxes up against the back window, and got settled, Mom on the long bench seat and Tommy wedged into the cargo area. The sheets worked, blocking a good bit of the light and not letting anyone see in, and it wasn't bad at all.

"Good night, sweetheart," Mom said to him, yawning. "I couldn't have asked for a better travelling companion…" and he could tell without asking that she was thinking of Brendan. "Say your prayers and sleep well." She pulled her rosary out of her purse and he could hear her voice murmuring prayers softly, with the gentle click of beads as she prayed.

He couldn't sleep right away. He started off with an Our Father, but it felt weird, and since he still hadn't been to Confession, it didn't seem like it was working. He couldn't feel God at all. Mom went to sleep pretty soon after her decade of prayers, her breath making a quiet rhythmic _sshhrrr_ noises, but suddenly Tommy was aware of the total lack of Brendan's breathing and he felt just awful.

He was so angry and lonely and _so scared_, and finally he had to admit to himself that he was hurt, too. Maybe of all the roiling emotions swimming around his head and his body, making his head spin and his chest hurt and his stomach do flips… maybe of all of those, the feeling of Brendan loving somebody better than him, the hurt of that – the betrayal of it – was the worst. That was it, for the first time in his life he felt not-loved by his brother, and it hurt so bad that he couldn't keep the tears in. He reached for something soft, some piece of clothing in the back of the car, to wipe his face on, and his hand closed on something that felt like a sweatshirt. He yanked it up to his face and breathed in, trying not to make noise crying, and it smelled like Brendan.

Brendan's Steelers hoodie, that's what he had hold of, and the loss of his brother kept stabbing him in the chest as he cried as quietly as he could manage, until finally he was so tired he'd cried himself to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11: Running Flat Out

**Chapter 11**

**A/N: I'd love reviews! Please? Pretty please?**

Mom was awake before Tommy had gotten all the sleep he needed. She had been trying to be quiet, he knew, but when she moved the sheet away from the back door of the wagon so that she could get out, the light came in and woke him.

He'd been dreaming. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Brendan's black hoodie, and out of nowhere last night's grief silently ripped at him.

"I'm sorry, honey," Mom said as she opened the car door. "Didn't mean to wake you. I'm going in to use the restroom. We'll get some breakfast in the restaurant here, and I'll buy some gas, and then we'll get back on the road."

"'Kay," he said sleepily, and she slipped out of the car, carrying her purse.

He lay there and felt his heart splitting. He wanted to be away from Pop, he wanted to be free and unafraid. He wanted Mom to be safe. But he wanted his brother, too. He wanted Brendan's shoulder bang up against his, the two Conlon boys together. He wanted the security of not having to grow up just yet and take on the role of Man of the Family, making decisions and providing for needs. He wanted Brendan's belief in him.

It wasn't _fair._

Yet he couldn't work out what else he could have done, other than to leave with Mom. Mom needed to be away from Pop or he was going to kill her, so she had to leave.

Mom couldn't get by on her own, she'd lived too long under Pop's thumb. So she needed her sons' support.

So Tommy had to come with her for her own sake. Even without the beating he'd taken at Pop's hands, he'd have _always_ come with Mom, because she needed him.

And Tommy needed Brendan. Mom needed Brendan. How could Brendan not have come with them? How could he have chosen That Girl? When people need help, you _goddamn help them_, because _you just do_. Especially when the people who need you are family.

Ugh. He was going to make himself sick with thinking about it. He worked his way out of the blanket – it didn't help that he'd somehow wrapped himself up in it, like a burrito – and shoved his feet into shoes, clambering over the back seat and getting out. He double-checked that the car keys weren't lying around, and locked the door behind him.

The sun was already up. Tommy didn't know how that translated to what time it was. At home he could make a good guess, but not here. 6:30? 7:00? His schedule had been weird, too, so he couldn't go by his stomach clock either. He started to walk toward the building.

But there was Mom, coming out of the truck stop store. She looked awake. "Oh, hi. You hungry?"

"Not really. What time is it?"

"Past seven. Let's go ahead and get some clean clothes out and wash up a little, and then we'll have breakfast." She unlocked the car and reached into the front seat, dislodging some of the sheets and picking up the atlas.

Well, okay. He spent ten seconds wondering how soon they'd need laundry, if they wore something fresh every day, and dismissed that worry for the larger one of wondering where they were even going. Mom pulled some fresh clothes out of her bag, and then a washcloth out of the box of household things, and she took the toiletries bag.

"Get a move on, Tommy, get a clean washcloth," she said, sounding surprised. "I'll go clean up in the ladies', and then I'll give you this." She pointed to the toiletries bag.

He shook his head and grabbed clean stuff for himself, wondering if Brendan was on the bus right at that moment. What would he say about Tommy? Would the school call Pop today, asking where Tommy was?

What was happening at home?

He shook the worries off again and followed Mom into the building. He waited outside the women's restroom until she came out, looking neat in jeans and a long-sleeve top, with her hair pulled back and her bruises covered with makeup.

"Here you go. And I'm hungry," she said playfully, "so don't take too long."

"Yes, Mom." He hurried to clean up at the sink, ignoring the other men in the room and sticking his head all the way under the stream from the faucet to wet it down. He _really_ needed a haircut. When he came out, having dried his hair roughly with yesterday's tee-shirt, Mom was browsing the rack of novels, lingering over some romance thing that showed a brawny long-haired blond guy bursting out of his unbuttoned pirate shirt. Ewww.

"Hungry now?" she asked him.

He was, now. Mom kept up a nonstop stream of chatter except when the waitress was around to listen, talking about the landscape and the open sky and the nice weather. When their omelets came and the waitress left, he put his hand flat on the little table between them. "Mom… what about Brendan?"

Her reply was swift and low-voiced. "Tommy,_ I can't._ I cannot talk about him right now."

"Well, but – Mom, where are we _going?_" He realized his breathing was too fast, and slowed it down, relaxing his shoulders. "We have to have a plan. I suck at plans, but we need one. It's making me crazy not having one."

"Thomas Ryan, you know perfectly well I don't want to hear you say suck that way."

She was stalling. He apologized anyway.

She sighed and pushed her hands into her hair, closing her eyes. "Okay. Let's have the atlas out and try to figure some things out. But after we eat. I feel just awful right now and I need my coffee."

He apologized again, and finally dug into his omelet. It was overcooked and rubbery, and out of nowhere he felt like crying again. Brendan's omelets were way better than this. He choked down the eggs with ham and cheese anyway, and ate the toast, and when he'd finished his orange juice he pushed the plate to the side and cleared the crumbs off the table, scooping them into his hand and depositing them on the plate so nobody would have to sweep the floor up after him. It was only polite.

"Okay," he said.

"I need a cigarette," Mom said, fishing in her purse.

"Mom!"

She looked up at him, startled. And then she put the purse aside. "Okay, honey. I can smoke in a minute."

Come to think of it, she _had_ been smoking a lot yesterday, more than her usual four or five cigarettes a day. She'd burned through three alone in the forty-five minutes they'd been waiting for Brendan, and had probably used up most of a pack.

"It's okay – let's just, just get it done. At least talk about it," he said. He spread the atlas sideways on the table, and they both turned in their seats to look at it. "So where you wanna go?"

Mom didn't answer for a minute, and when he looked up at her she was wiping her eyes with a paper napkin. "I'm sorry," she said again. "It's just… nobody has asked me what _I _want in such a long time. It feels so strange. And so _nice_."

He reached over and patted her hand. "Well. If we gotta go _somewhere,_ it should be somewhere you wanna go."

"California," Mom said, dreamily. "California, I'd like to go there. See it, anyway. Palm trees and the beach… see the Pacific Ocean and all the flowers."

_California is a long way away._ He took a deep breath. "Okay. So you know where in California? It's a big state." He'd done a report on California in middle school, and he knew it was big. "SoCal? Sunshine and orange groves? Hollywood?"

"Well… I saw something once on TV. About a place called Santa Rosa?"

Santa Rosa… he looked at the map but couldn't find it right away. He put his finger on the California coastline and followed it up from Mexico – and there it was. Not too far north of San Francisco. That might be nice; he'd heard good things about the weather in San Fran.

It was _far. _He measured with his finger and got something between 2000 and 2500 miles from Indianapolis. Then he took a clean paper napkin and used that to measure. "That's, like, 2300 miles, Mom. That's far."

She nodded. "Yes." He looked up and met her eyes and realized why far would be good. She was scared of Pop.

Well, so was he.

"Okay," he said. "That'll take a long time to drive. If we go on the interstates it'll be, oh, another four days or so."

"I know," Mom said. She crumpled the napkin in her hands. "If we keep sleeping in the car and we don't eat out much, we can make it. I know we can. We really just have to pay for gas, that's all, and maybe a little bit of food."

Every mile took them farther away from Pop and his booze and his hair-trigger temper and his big hard fists. But every mile took them farther away from Brendan, too. _Brendan made his choice,_ Tommy reminded himself, but all the same, the loss of his brother was a deep ache. He rubbed his chest, trying to get it to go away.

"Okay," Tommy said, and did math in his head. "Okay. So if we can… if we can drive eight or nine hours a day, or maybe even ten, that's like 600 miles a day. Maybe 650, around there."

"We can do it," Mom said. "I can manage that." His eyebrows went up, because she'd taken four ibuprofen with her coffee. "What?" she said, defensive. "I can."

"I'll drive some too," he said.

"All right then," she said. "Four days. We'll be in California by Friday night if not sooner."

They lingered at their table, planning the route: I-70 to Denver. Then north to Cheyenne where they would pick up I-80 and take that road into California. The waitress came by and refilled their drinks, and Tommy smiled at her. She looked like another mom, and she smiled back at both of them.

When they were done with the planning, they brushed teeth and Mom bought gas while Tommy bundled all the sheets back into their box. And then they were back on the road.

Through the city of Indianapolis, and west into Missouri… they stopped for lunch at an Interstate rest stop picnic table just west of St. Louis, and Mom couldn't stop talking about how impressive the Arch was, and how wonderful it was that you could see it from the Interstate – see it for _miles,_ even. "How nice it is to be able to see different parts of the country," Mom said wistfully, as if she wasn't even the one looking at the rolling hills of western Illinois and eastern Missouri. "I was always a little jealous that I didn't get to go on those trips to the Junior Olympics." She lit a cigarette and turned on the bench so that the smoke wouldn't blow toward Tommy.

There hadn't been money enough for Mom to go on those trips. Brendan had gone to several when he was younger, but as it became clear that Tommy was the more accomplished wrestler, Pop had stopped taking Brendan. Tommy'd been to six of them, ever since he was eight years old and Pop had scraped together the entry fees and the money for plane tickets. He'd never gone to Juniors and not won.

Last year, Juniors had been held in Cocoa Beach, Florida. Tommy had been to three cities in Florida, one in Tennessee, one in Minnesota, and this year he should have gone to Des Moines, Iowa, for the '95 tournament. He had a sudden feeling of loss, because there was no way he could go this year. There would certainly not be enough money.

Maybe they could _go_ to Des Moines and Mom get a job there. They could live there – that was a thought. Then there wouldn't be any travel fees, and he'd keep his undefeated stat.

But there would still be entry fees, and he wouldn't have a coach/sponsor. No, it wouldn't work. He got up from the picnic table. "Gonna go for a little walk, stretch my legs some." While he was walking he shook off his disappointment. Everybody had to make some sacrifices, and this was worth it, getting Mom away from the angry drunk.

It was _worth_ it. It_ was. _And he'd be able to wrestle again when they got to wherever they were going. Santa Rosa was bound to be big enough to have a wrestling team, it had to be.

He felt better by the time they hopped back in the car for another four hours. "Want me to drive a little?" he asked.

Mom, who was yawning after their lunch, nodded. "Yes, please. You're not sleepy, are you?"

"Nope. Go ahead and sleep in the back seat if you want."

But she reminded him that someone his age wasn't supposed to be driving solo, and it would look funny if no adult was visible in the car. She said she'd sleep against the window. So that was the way it was, and he drove almost all the way to Columbia, almost two hours until he started to get tired.

It was almost better when he was driving, because he had to focus on the road and the traffic, and he didn't have time to think. It was only when Mom woke up and insisted she was rested enough to drive again that he had time to think about school letting out at 3pm on a Tuesday and Brendan going home… or instead going to That Girl's house. Tommy didn't know exactly where That Girl lived, but he knew it was in Squirrel Hill South, the nice neighborhood near Carnegie-Mellon University, where the houses were big and the yards were bigger. She probably had her own bedroom. She probably had… a pool table in the basement. A piano in the living room. Maybe a pool in the backyard. And of course Brendan would be digging all that shit. Not that Brendan was mercenary, really, but Brendan had resented the lack of space in their house, and the lack of privacy, and the way everything seemed small and cramped and… well… poor.

"If he quit spendin' money on _booze,_" Brendan had groused more than once, with Pop out at The Dark Horse or the Steeltown Tavern, "and if he quit spendin' money on those _bar floozies,_ we could afford a better house."

"A better house would be farther from the mill," Tommy had replied, trying to be fair but annoyed at Brendan bitching about their home, "but there's nothin' wrong with this one anyway. I like it." He did like it, too – not the tiny rooms downstairs, really, or the way Pop would pace around some nights like he was a tiger in a cage. Rather, he liked their neighborhood, and he liked the cozy way their twin beds filled up their bedroom, so that if he reached out his right arm and Brendan reached out his left, and they stretched a little, they could even touch hands lying in bed. He liked that.

Brendan had glared at him. "And if we didn't have to buy plane tickets to Juniors, we wouldn't have to live on peanut butter and baloney for a month, either."

That had hurt Tommy's feelings. At the time, he'd been inclined to be charitable, knowing that Brendan had felt bad that Pop would rather work with Tommy. But remembering this conversation, he finally said to the Brendan in his head, "Well, _screw you_ then."

And, for some odd reason, it seemed that letting himself get a tiny bit annoyed with Brendan, even so long afterward and in such a private way – well, it helped. He didn't feel such a sickening ache of missing Brendan, while he was mad.

The ache came back, of course. He couldn't keep it away for very long.

They drove through Kansas City, almost into Topeka, and it was past 7:30 when Mom finally said, "Okay. Next truck stop, we stop." She lit another cigarette, her sixth of the day.

"Good." Because by then, Tommy was starving. He was very glad to see a diner-style restaurant at the truck stop, so he could get some vegetables with dinner. They ate silently. They brushed teeth and set up the wagon for another night of sleep, and once again Mom fell asleep after her prayers.

Tommy thought that it might be because for the first time in years Mom might feel safe. He didn't feel so safe, himself. He lay awake with his own beat-up navy hoodie rolled up under his head for a pillow, cocooned snugly into the blanket, and he was warm enough, and the car was dark enough, and he was tired enough that he should have been able to drop off too. But he couldn't. Finally, he scooted himself over to the driver's side of the cargo area and stretched out his right arm, just as if he was back home in his own bed, to touch that Steelers hoodie and pretend that Brendan was coming to bed later.

That worked.

The next day was very much like Tuesday. He and Mom both showered in the morning and washed down Pop-Tarts (God, Pop would have had an absolute shit fit about his nutrition!) with milk she bought at the truck stop store, and she bought a bag of oranges for them too, but other than that it was just drive, drive, drive all day.

It was pretty much the same again, except different scenery. _Wildly _different scenery, too: this far into Kansas, everything was extremely flat. It made Tommy feel exposed and open to attack, and at some point they drove through a thunderstorm which made him nervous in a way that lightning, wind and rain had never made him feel back home in Pittsburgh.

As they crossed into Colorado, Mom let him drive, and they could see the Rocky Mountains ahead. These mountains were impressive. Not the long undulating green ridges of the Alleghenies, curving around rivers and towns like things you could rest your back up against – nothing that welcomed you. Instead, they stood tall against the sky and said, "You wanna piece a' me?"

As they got closer to Denver and the car began to work harder going up inclines, Mom took over driving again. Tommy took a weird kind of pleasure, one familiar from countless wrestling matches, at pitting himself against those stubborn mountains. He would not be intimidated, even if these were not his mountains.

As they got into Denver, which was actually a nice-looking city, they turned north. They got to Cheyenne and turned west onto I-80, which seemed to take them out of the way of those stubborn-ass gigantic piles of rock that people out here called mountains, or at least out of the way of trying to drive _up _them. Tommy stared out the window a lot, and although Mom kept him busy with more of those dumb car-trip games, all the time he was thinking,_ Man, this country is so damn empty._ There were cities, yes, but few. Far between. Hardly any small towns. Not even many farms, either.

It felt lonely.

They stopped just west of Salt Lake City, which probably would have been better at street level – it certainly seemed cleaner than Pittsburgh, anyway – but somehow, from the interstate it just looked depressing to Tommy. It was laid out on a strict grid, because there wasn't anything in the way. No rivers or mountains or hills or anything. Denver he'd liked the look of, but Salt Lake City made him feel itchy.

Nevertheless, the truck stop was clean and the people seemed nice. They had their one good meal of the day. Mom, who'd been chipper while driving, said she was tired and wouldn't meet Tommy's eyes. That night in the car she didn't drift right off after her prayers, and Tommy could hear her crying even though she was trying to stifle it.

"Mom," he said, "go ahead and cry. It's okay."

"I'm sorry," she said, and he was suddenly angry at the entire horrible injustice of her whole life.

"No," he told her. "Don't be sorry. Nothing is your fault. It's _okay_."

"I'll be all right," she said, and sniffled. She continued to sniffle for some time, but that was okay with Tommy. Be weirder if she was still all cheerful. He stretched out again on the driver's side of the cargo area, and pillowed his head on his sweatshirt. But tonight he didn't need Brendan's hoodie to touch. Instead he just closed his eyes and drifted, and when his not-quite-asleep dream dropped him on the shore at Atlantic City, with the wind in his face and Pop's big hand holding his, he stayed there, five years old and not afraid of anything.

Friday morning when they looked at the map over breakfast, it seemed clear that they had fallen behind a little bit, and they probably couldn't get all the way into Santa Rosa unless they drove twelve hours straight. "We'll be all right," Mom said, tracing I-80 with her finger. Tommy watched her face, though, and she was worried.

"We got enough money?" he asked her.

"Oh yes. We're fine," she said immediately. "Even with buying gas, I still have almost $300. We've been very frugal."

They drove all day. Tommy stared out the window again, but he saw nothing. Somehow his eyes only saw things in memories. He spent a good hour thinking about his grandmother, Mom's mother, who had died when he was four. She had adored him. Him and Brendan too, she'd given them cookies and let them sleep on her cushiony lap…

He remembered the summer after his first grade year, when he'd lost an incisor when he accidentally wrecked his bike into Joey Beck's down the street. He'd actually swallowed the tooth and not told anybody, and had spent the entire summer waiting terrified for it to bite his insides. One of Pop's tough workouts had left him in tears with his stomach hurting, and while Mom was helping him wash his hair in the tub that night he'd confided his fear. He'd been crying too hard to see that she was trying not to smile, until she dried him off and took him into her arms to tell him that he'd probably long ago flushed the tooth away without even knowing it.

He spent a long time thinking about Christine Keagy, and he was disappointed but not surprised to realize that he couldn't remember the exact color of her eyes, or how tall she was, or anything except the bubblegum taste of her mouth and the softness of her breast under his hand. He couldn't even remember what her voice sounded like.

Mom was excited to drive into California. She poked Tommy into alertness so he could see the blue "Welcome to California" sign with the golden poppies on it. He looked around – they were in the Sierra Nevadas, which were mountains he liked despite the fact that they weren't soft green like mountains would be at home. They were proper mountains, in that trees and plants grew on them, but the altitude here was high enough that nothing had started growing yet, and the only green was the dark color of pines.

They drove almost into Sacramento before sunset, with the light golden on the Tower Bridge, and Mom gasped. "It's beautiful! Look, Tommy, how beautiful."

It really was. Sacramento was like Denver in that it looked clean and nice and pretty without being too regimented, a place where people could really live.

They stopped for dinner at a Waffle House, but didn't linger. Mom was anxious to press on, even though it was dark now. Another hundred miles to Santa Rosa… he sighed and offered to drive, but Mom took another four Advil with her coffee and insisted on taking the wheel again. "We're so close," she said, and she was so glittery-eyed with excitement that he just nodded.

Mom drove. Tommy tried to keep his stomach from doing flips. _We're on the totally opposite coast. We are two thousand miles from Pittsburgh. Pop would have to come a long, long way to find us._

There wasn't a truck stop anywhere near Santa Rosa, and he had just started to worry about where they were going to sleep when Mom pulled into the parking lot of a Motel 6. "We're stayin' here?" he asked, surprised. It didn't look like a particularly nice part of town – not that he was scared or anything, but still.

"Yes," Mom said firmly. "We are gonna sleep in beds for once. And we're _here_, here in California! We can celebrate a little."

He was good and tired of sitting, and some of her excitement spilled over onto him, so he got out of the car and followed her in. She paid the clerk $43 for the room plus taxes, and then another $20 as a deposit in case they used the phone. She'd had to argue a little to get the clerk to agree to that, even, since she didn't have a credit card.

But finally they had a key, and then they were dumping their duffel bags and the toiletries bag onto the two full-size beds in the room. Mom lit another cigarette, and Tommy frowned at her. "You know, those are expensive."

"Oh, I know," she said, laughing a little and waving the smoke away. "I know you hate 'em, too. Now we're here, I'll have to slack off a little until I can start making some money."

"Maybe I can get a job too."

Mom finished her cigarette while he turned on the TV for SportsCenter, and then she said, "I'm gonna take a shower. You want one?" They'd only showered twice in the whole five days they'd been gone, and he needed one.

"Yep, thanks, but you go first." Mom smiled at him, took some clothes out of her bag, and went into the bathroom. He immediately got up and opened the door to let some of the smoke out, while she wasn't watching, and stood there in the cool night air. There wasn't all that much going on in Santa Rosa at 11pm on a Friday, but there was a bar not far down the street from the motel, and while he was standing there in the cool, a tall man with broad shoulders walked out of the bar with his arm around a girl who could have been young enough to be his daughter. But she wasn't, not the way he was grabbing her ass, and they were both stumbling drunk.

It was depressing. The door had been open enough, so he closed it and locked all the locks, regular lock and deadbolt and that stupid chain thing that never really stopped a serious attacker from getting in. He moved his things from the bed closer to the bathroom to the one near the window. He would sleep there, just in case. Because Lord knew, Mom couldn't protect herself.

He was watching a late Oakland A's game against the Blue Jays when she came out of the bathroom and said, "All yours, honey. And let's get up around seven and start looking around, hmm?"

"Sure, Mom." So he took a shower and brushed his teeth and piled into the bed, wearing shorts and a fresh t-shirt for the first time this entire trip. He was tired, and before he knew it he was asleep.

He woke later, though, with the bedside clock saying 2:13 am, feeling more completely alone than he ever had in his life, even with Mom making her soft snoring noises in the other bed.

_We're here. Now what? Oh, God, now what?_

**A/N: For those of you who are wondering what on earth is going on with Brendan, I am currently working on a companion fic, addressing the "Meanwhile, Back in Pittsburgh" portion of the story. It will probably be shorter than this one will turn out to be, and will focus on Brendan and Tess. **

**I felt pretty strongly that since this is Tommy's part of the story, I needed to focus on what he knew and thought and felt, and I am pretty sure that he would have had zero knowledge of what Brendan was going through. And vice versa, for that matter – Brendan's just as clueless for years.**

**Meanwhile… a happy Easter weekend to those who celebrate, and I'll be back (I hope) next week with more.**


	12. Chapter 12: Out of Reach

**Chapter 12 Out of Reach**

**So I've been reading Wynter S Komen's wonderful Warrior fic, "From the Ashes," this week while I was working on this chapter, and there was a phrase in Ch 70 that just SLAMMED me. See, in that chapter Brendan is thinking about why Tommy would have enlisted in the Marines, given that living with Paddy was such a dangerous proposition… and of course he figures out that Tommy had longed for brothers, since Tommy's own brother hadn't picked him. That one phrase, "Tommy's only brother didn't pick him," was so stark and true, and dovetailed so perfectly with how Tommy is feeling in this chapter – well, I stole it. With permission, of course, but I totally swiped. **

**Go read FtA if you haven't already. You won't be sorry. (Thanks a million, Miss W.)**

Saturday, Tommy woke knowing exactly what day it was. It was shocking to him to think that two weeks ago he'd been lying on the couch hoping he wouldn't die of a punctured lung. _Two weeks,_ he thought, _two weeks... and we're all the way across the country. Without Brendan. Of course, Brendan wasn't there the night Pop made like a jackhammer on Mom and me, either. _

_Screw him. _ Saying the words, even silently in his head, made tears pool in his eyes, but at the same time it felt good, too. It felt something like defiance. He rolled over in the bed and realized that it was fairly late in the morning - later than he usually got up, anyway. It was nearly nine o'clock and Mom was still sacked out and snoring gently in the other bed, which made him smile without even meaning to. Mom was safe, anyway.

He started thinking. He wasn't the plan guy, that was for damn sure, but he just had to use common sense. He didn't have to maximize efficiency and do everything in the right order, he just had to figure out A) what they had and B) what they needed. They'd move on to C) how they could get it, later.

So. First off, breakfast, even if it was just the last two oranges from the bag they'd bought at one of the truck stops, and maybe a piece of bread with peanut butter. He couldn't think without fuel.

Second, they needed a place to stay. He turned that over in his head, and then realized he was wrong; Mom needed a job first, so that they could find a place relatively close to her work, if that was possible. Third, an apartment. And _then,_ definitely a Laundromat, because he was down to one clean shirt unless he started raiding Brendan's duffel bag. He sighed. There wasn't really any reason not to – it wouldn't be worth it to try to send the bag back, and anyway that wasn't what Tommy wanted. Brendan should have been there to wear those clothes himself.

Tommy shook his head. _Don't think about it_. He got up and started going through the bag that held the remains of the food they'd brought from Pittsburgh: a nearly-empty jar of peanut butter, some crackers, a bag of raisins, a jar of applesauce. There was a tiny jar of instant coffee, too. Well, they'd have that. Okay, next? Maybe there was a phone directory in the nightstand… yep, there it was. He was looking at the map of the city in it when Mom made a little snorty noise and rolled over in bed.

"Morning, Mom. You sleep okay?"

"Like a log," she said, and rubbed her eyes. "Well, _you're_ all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning."

"I slept good too. Thought we should get started on findin' us a place."

"Good idea." She sat up. "Whatcha see there?"

"Not much. I mean, nothin' that means anything to me since I don't know the town."

"Right. Well, let's go get some breakfast. There must be somethin' around here I can do, even if it's only workin' at McDonald's. A job's a job." She took her nice gray dress pants and a white blouse into the bathroom with her, and when she came out she looked neat and businesslike. Her makeup hid her bruises, and she'd even put on lipstick and some of that stuff that made her eyelashes look long. Tommy told her she looked nice, and she smiled at him.

They left the motel and walked a couple of blocks down the street to a Waffle House, where Mom had coffee and a waffle with fruit, and Tommy practically inhaled eggs, bacon, toast and milk. "I'd like to find a job at a dry cleaner's," Mom said, "since I have experience with that, so I'll look in the phone book again when we go back."

Their waitress, coming by to refill Mom's coffee cup, said, "You wan' dry cleaner?"

Tommy looked up at the waitress. She was short and had black hair, and some part of his brain said _Mexican,_ though he'd never seen a real Mexican person in his life. The Hispanic kids at Taylor Allderdice were mostly Puerto Rican, or Cuban, or Dominican – or at least their parents had been.

Mom explained that she was looking for work at a dry cleaner's, and the waitress nodded. "Yes, down street, two blocks." She gestured with the hand not holding the coffeepot. "Then you turn, an' you go… ah… _right,_ 'bout another block. Whirlwind Cleaners. I walk by it ev'ryday I come to work here. They have a sign in a window, Help Wanted. You go there." She nodded, encouraging, and Mom's face lit up.

"Thank you. Really, thank you so much."

"Is no problem," the waitress said. "I hope you get the job." She smiled and put down their bill.

"Thank you," Mom said again. She opened her purse and fished out the money to pay for their breakfast, adding a generous $5 tip. Tommy opened his mouth to say that it seemed a little excessive, but he reconsidered. If Mom got the job, it would be worth it. And being nice, that was worth something too. He looked up at Mom's pink cheeks and remembered the last time she'd been so excited at the prospect of getting a job – and suddenly he had to fight off the sensation that he couldn't breathe, that Pop was standing right behind him. He shuddered involuntarily.

"I'm fine," he said to his mother. "Just a chill, I'm fine." And he _would_ be, they both would be, unless Pop came looking for them. So they couldn't have Pop come looking, that was all.

Mom went into the restroom to brush her teeth, and they walked in the direction the waitress had indicated, through this older section of the city. It was mostly small businesses – office supply store, cell phone kiosk, shoe repair, drugstore, tiny Asian restaurant, car repair place – and the dry cleaner's sat back a little ways from the street. Its signs were faded, but the store was clean, and even as they walked up to it, a small woman with dark hair, an older Asian lady, was sweeping dust out the front door. She smiled at them and held the door open.

The older Asian man behind the counter said, "Welcome! What can I do for you today?"

"I've come about the job," Mom said.

The man's eyes flicked to Tommy, and suddenly Tommy understood that he might be in the way here. He patted Mom on the arm. "I'll go back down to the drugstore and wait for you there, all right?"

"Thank you," Mom said, and as Tommy was going out the door, nodding to the lady with the broom, he heard her say, "Now, I've just moved into town, and I don't have a resume or references, but I do have experience…" He sent up a quick prayer that everything would go well, and walked slowly down the street to the drugstore. He wandered around in there, staring at racks of bandages and cold pills and makeup. He found a 75-cent map of the city near the cash register and bought it, then stood outside the building studying it and trying to get a feel for where he was.

Back home, he'd have known. He'd run around his city so much that he could identify where he was by the skyline and the rivers. A wave of longing for its gritty streets, its church bells and train tracks and bridges, swept over him, and he had to stop looking at the map and just breathe_. All this space between us and Pop,_ he told himself, _the whole country between us. We're safe now._

He watched a clump of kids about his age walk past, one guy dribbling a basketball and the rest of them clowning around. He'd be starting school here soon, and maybe he'd get to know those guys. Then he saw Mom walking toward him, and before he could even see her face he could tell she had good news, just by the way she held herself. As she got closer, she waved. He waved back. "I got it!" she called to him, and he folded up the map and ran to hug her.

"Good for you."

"I start today," she said, breathless and eyes sparkling. "Just a four-hour shift, 2 pm to 6, sort of a trial period, but I know I'll do fine. And they're so nice, the Changs. They've been running it themselves, all their lives, and the cousins that have been helping them just left to go open their own business in the south part of town, so they needed more employees."

"You can do it."

"And they said that if we needed a cheap place to stay, that the Stay-a-While Motor Inn would be a good bet. They said it isn't fancy, but it doesn't cost much. They said cheap apartments run $400, 450 a month around here, plus utilities, and you have to pay two months down."

Ouch. They didn't _have_ $800 – Tommy knew for a fact that they had just a little over $200 left. Well, this might do until they could save some money.

"It's three blocks that way, in Roseland." Mom pointed.

"All right then, let's go check it out. Sure you're not too tired to walk it?" Tommy asked her. He'd be fine as long as they didn't go fast, but Mom had bruises of her own.

"I'm excited," she said, and squeezed his arm. "Let's go."

The Stay-a-While was kind of a dump. Fifties construction, or maybe older, one of those old motor inns that gradually turned from motels into extremely cheap semi-permanent housing for people who couldn't afford the deposit on a real apartment. The manager, a stooped skinny old guy who said his name was Curtis, let his eyes skate over Mom while she was looking at the room. He spoke politely enough, to Mom's face rather than her boobs, but Tommy didn't like it. Tommy caught his eye and did that shoulder move that Pop had showed him, the one that made his body look bigger than it really was. He'd only used it before to intimidate a wrestling opponent, but it worked pretty well on Curtis, who straightened up and didn't stare at Mom from that point on.

The room was shabby, with dingy yellow paint and a carpet that probably should have been burned, and it smelled distinctly of cigarette smoke. It had two beds, bathroom, TV, and mini-fridge. "You can have a microwave, a coffeemaker, a hot pot," Curtis said. "We're wired for that. But absolutely_ no _burners, no hot plates or electric skillets. No Sterno, either. They're fire hazards. Maid service, laundry facilities, and phone are all extras, if you're interested in those. Double occupancy is $95 a week, payable in advance." He stood still, waiting for Mom's response.

Mom was thinking. "Any deposit?"

"Nope. Just payment up front, and we can do a rolling week. Start it any day you want. Like today, first week's rent would be due today and next week's before midnight on Saturday. Any questions?"

Mom asked about laundry, and Tommy tuned her out. He looked around, seeing all kinds of mess around: unmowed grass, a bunch of sticks lying around under the few trees, a broken latticework frame around what was probably the Dumpster. When he turned back around to see what was going on, Mom was taking a deep breath. "Yes, we'll take it. At least this week. Ninety-five?"

Tommy cut in before the manager could answer. "Hey – you got a lotta mess around here." He gestured around, and Curtis' face got red.

"Don't have enough time. Got to fix the shower in 12B and the A/C in Room 4, and I don't have three hands."

"I'll help you," Tommy said bluntly. "If you'll knock some off the rent."

"You'll have school," Mom said.

"Next week," he told her. "This is temporary. You don't want to start me off somewhere and then transfer me when we find a permanent place, do you?" She didn't answer, but he could see her noting his point. "What do you say?" he asked Curtis.

Curtis was rubbing his chin. "Well… say you worked, oh, twenty, thirty hours? Can't pay you wages, you're probably underage. But…" he shrugged. "Okay. 15 bucks off the rent for every 10 hours you put in."

"Thirty," Tommy corrected. That was still only three dollars an hour, and minimum wage was $4.15.

"Twenty," Curtis countered. "And I can't do more, unless you want me takin' out Social Security."

"Okay, twenty." Tommy held his hand out for Curtis to shake, and then Curtis gave them the two room keys.

He and Mom walked back to the motel, slowly because she didn't want to get tired, and he told her he'd go ahead and move stuff on in, she could rest before going to work. She thanked him.

It was only later, when Mom was having a rest, that it occurred to him that he hadn't made such a great deal after all. So what if Curtis took out government money? That was only like fifteen percent. He'd still be making more than three bucks an hour. Well, if they stayed, he'd renegotiate. Or get a job at McDonald's himself – Mom could give him permission even if he wasn't 16 yet. Okay, so he'd work after school and all summer. That would help.

_I need Brendan,_ he thought, and his chest clenched up. Brendan would have been able to figure this shit out, and maybe find them a better place fast, too.

He could only do his best. Nobody could ask for more.

* * *

Mom liked the dry cleaner's. She liked the work, she liked talking to people, she liked the Changs and the other lady that worked there. Every time she got back to their room after work, she'd be chattering pretty much nonstop about the day and who she met and crap like that. She always slept really sound, too. So that was awesome.

Nobody bothered them in the Stay-a-While, not even the crazy book lady who took her paperbacks out for a ride in a baby buggy every day it didn't rain, or the five Mexican guys who worked construction and lived in the room next door. And it was a pretty place, Santa Rosa, even if this section of town was rundown. Weather was nice, too.

He'd been getting along okay with Curtis, too, though Curtis was a bossy old son of a bitch. Ain't like Tommy hadn't had to deal with something like _that _before. They'd fixed the leak in the boiler, fixed the shower in one room, replaced the window unit in another room, and rebuilt the lattice hiding the Dumpster. Tommy had mowed the grass twice, picked up all the sticks, and actually planted some flowers. Place wasn't looking half bad these days, and Curtis gave him $50 in cash on Thursday. "Saved me that much, maybe more," Curtis said, "and your mom already paid the rent. I checked it out – I can pay you as an independent contractor."

Tommy thanked him. They'd gotten to talking some during the week, or more to the point, Curtis talked and Tommy listened. Curtis was a widower, and he liked younger ladies but didn't go out of his way to be a jerk. He wasn't so bad really. Curtis liked to play big band music while they fixed stuff, and sometimes he talked about his married daughters in San Fran. It was probably a good thing Curtis would rather talk than ask nosy questions, because Tommy didn't know how much he could say about Pittsburgh or what was still there.

They were settling in just fine, and he'd actually started to look forward to going back to school. Except that he noticed that neither one of them, neither Mom nor him, had been able to talk about Brendan at all. He missed Brendan all the time. Not talking about Pop – well, that made sense. Tommy was still scared of Pop finding them. But Brendan? Mom _should_ have wanted to talk about Brendan, worry about him, something. But she didn't. And Tommy wasn't going to bring it up, because the minute his brother's name crossed his lips he would probably cry like a baby. No, it seemed like Mom was facing forward as hard as she could, working as hard as she could. Deliberately not looking back.

They went to Maundy Thursday service at Resurrection Parish Church, and enough of it was like church at home that Tommy got to feeling homesick. He fought it as much as he could, focusing on the service and thinking about Jesus. Thinking about a new start. And then, after the Eucharist had been removed from the altar, the priest got to the reading of Jesus being betrayed, betrayed by his own disciple, betrayed with a kiss. Hearing that was like a kick to Tommy's ribs, because somebody who should have loved Jesus and should have been on his side, well, that person hurt him. _On purpose._

He remembered Pop's booted foot. And he thought of Brendan's arm around him. Brendan helping him get dressed, Brendan promising he'd be there. And suddenly Tommy knew how that part of it, at least, must have been for Jesus – how it felt to have somebody you loved and sacrificed for to turn their back and sell you out. Somebody who was supposed to support you left you hanging.

The ache started in the back of his throat and spread down to his chest, and his eyes stung. He bent forward, trying to stop the pain, but it didn't help, and without his even meaning to at all, he started crying. Tears stung his face, and he tried to keep quiet, but he was shaking. Mom put her arm around him and held him close, and it helped but not enough. He felt wrecked and abandoned.

He didn't hear another word of the service. Mom held on to him until it got quieter in the church, no more feet shuffling out. He knew there would still be people staying for the adoration of the sacrament, but they weren't talking. Finally he opened his eyes and sighed, and Mom kissed his cheek. He looked at her; she'd been crying too. But she didn't say anything, she just cupped his cheek in her hand and then led him out to the car.

They didn't talk on the way back to the motel. They didn't talk much once they were in their room, either. Tommy felt empty of words – empty of everything. How could things be good without Brendan?

And worse, how could things be good for Brendan without him and Mom? Would Pop turn his angry hands Brendan's way?

Tommy would bet that's what might be happening right then. Pop wasn't lazy, exactly, but taking out his anger on whoever was around, that was more like Pop than driving across the country looking for his wife. _ Oh Jesus, protect him, _he prayed while he brushed his teeth.

Mom came out of the bathroom in her sleep clothes – not the pretty nighties she used to wear at home. Instead she wore some pajamas she'd bought for herself once and then tucked away in a drawer, after Pop had said something scathing about women who had to wear pants to bed. But she didn't get into her own bed. She came to Tommy's and sat down next to him, smoothing his hair back.

"You need a haircut," she said gently. "I'll get a pair of scissors for cutting hair and do it soon, that'll be cheaper than going to the barbershop." Tommy nodded. "So… Tommy, what was all that about?"

His throat closed up, but he forced the one word out through it. "Brendan." And although he'd thought he was empty of tears and done with crying, he wasn't. He wasn't empty of words, either. They came out in chunks, like word vomit, and he couldn't stop them. "Shoulda been with us… said he'd be there… we need him, I can't _do _this, we can't do this on our own!" He blew his nose on the tissue Mom handed him, and the words kept pouring out. "He betrayed me, like Judas, all my life I've loved him and he loved me and we_ need _him and he screwed us over… That Girl was more important than me, I can't stand it… how could he do that to us, how could he just _let us go _without him? And what if Pop hurts him – "

The fear that swept over him locked up his throat again and the words dammed up.

"Oh, Tommy, I know. I know, I've been worried sick about him ever since we left. Been tryin' not to think about him, 'cause it worries me so much." Mom smoothed his hair again. "I wish he was here with us. You're right, we'd be doin' much better with him. Such a steady person, your brother, calm and rational. He'd be a big help." Her voice was shaky, and she kept smoothing his hair as if it made her feel better. Like he was a dog or something. But it felt too nice for him to be offended by that, and he put his head on Mom's shoulder and just let the tears flow. "I hope he'll do better with your father than I ever could. I provoked him, but Brendan's sensible. He'll be fine. He'll get out if he needs to."

Mom sounded like she was trying to convince herself. Tommy wanted it to be true, too, so he didn't argue. Besides which, he was still crying too hard.

"How could he not pick me?" Tommy asked, in anguish. "I'm his only brother in the whole world, and he didn't pick me."

Mom made soothing noises and stroked his hair, and then Tommy was so tired he couldn't feel any more. He hugged her tight, and she hugged back. "I miss him too, baby. Can you go to sleep now?"

He nodded. And he did go to sleep, worn out… only to dream of sleeping in his bed at home in Pittsburgh, with Brendan's arm warm around him and no yelling in the house. He woke as tired as he'd been when he went to sleep the night before.

They didn't speak of Brendan anymore. Tommy kept making his brother's face go away, out of his mind. It was tough. Not even the prospect of Easter on the horizon seemed to make any difference.

* * *

On Saturday the dry cleaner's closed at 4 pm. Tommy had been running the Weedeater for Curtis all afternoon, getting all the ragged edges of the yard around the fence and the building, around the trees. He was tired. His ribs were better, the bruises had gone pale yellow, but his stamina sucked. After a shower, he'd changed into clean clothes and pretty much collapsed on the bed. He flipped the TV to a baseball game and waited for Mom to get back to the room with her paycheck, so they could pay Curtis for another week.

Mom came in at quarter past 5, carrying two grocery bags and looking nervous. Tommy sat up on his bed and stared. She set the groceries down and started putting a few things in the mini-fridge. Tommy had been looking forward to something good all week, now that they had a little income and something to cook in. But it looked like Mom had bought the same sort of things they'd been living on recently: bread, peanut butter, apples, canned things like green beans and tuna fish.

"Mom?" Tommy didn't know what to ask.

Mom didn't reply, just went on setting out food and rearranging it, her back to Tommy.

"Did you get paid?"

"Oh yes," she said over her shoulder, and switched the fresh jar of peanut butter with the jar of strawberry preserves. "Even had a little overtime. And since the banks were closed, I cashed my paycheck at the grocery store. Nice of them to let me do that, don't you think?"

"Yeah, it was. But Mom – what's wrong?"

Mom, facing away from him, shook her head and didn't speak. She went into the bathroom, and then washed her hands and her face. She began pacing the room, and the by-now familiar smell of dry-cleaning chemicals wafted off her every time she walked past Tommy.

"_Mom._ Talk to me."

She shook her head again and kept pacing.

"Something bad happened, didn't it?" Tommy asked her, his stomach churning with fear. He got up and took her shoulders with his hands, stopping her. "Mom, _please. _Please tell me."

She finally blinked, focusing in on his face. "I might have… I might have done something stupid." What could she have done? Sent a letter home, or made a phone call? She took a deep breath. "I gave the Changs my Social Security number."

Tommy blinked. "And… that's a mistake why?"

"Well, I didn't think about it," Mom said, defensive. "I'd already signed the tax return for last year, before we left."

"So?" God, would she ever just _say?_

"So an employer has to report earnings to the IRS." She bit her lip. "And… Tommy… I used this address. That means that eventually, someone could find me using my SSN."

Tommy's stomach dropped. "What are we gonna do?" he whispered.

"I don't know." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Your father was right… he was _right, _I can't run my own life, I need help… I'm such an idiot…"

_We need Brendan. _ "No, you're not. You're _not_. Not knowin' stuff is not the same as being an idiot. But for sure you need somebody who knows more than me," Tommy said. "'Cause I don't know what to do, either. Wouldn't the Changs – you don't think they'd maybe just pay you in cash instead?"

"I asked," Mom said, and wiped her nose. "I didn't want to give them my Social, and they asked why, and I didn't have a good answer 'cause I didn't want to tell them anything that personal. And then she said that they had to be very careful with the IRS, because they only became citizens about ten years ago, and they had to obey the law. So they wouldn't do that." She started really crying, choking out words between sobs. "And I don't know what else to _do!_ I don't want to stay here, Paddy'll find us – and I'm so _scared,_ Tommy. I couldn't bear it, I couldn't stand to go back, not after all we've been through to get here…"

He held her close, realizing that she might be his mother, but she was a small woman. She felt like some delicate creature to be protected. "Nobody's makin' you go back. I promise. I _promise_ you'll be safe."

She just cried for several minutes, letting him stroke her hair and murmur soothing things. But then she pushed herself backward to look up at him. "We have to move on," she said fiercely. "We have to go."

_Go? We just got here._ He opened his mouth to question her, but she kept talking.

"It's not safe for us here," she continued. "The Changs will have to report my earnings, and Paddy has a legal right to know where I am, and somebody will tell him. We have to go somewhere else, another place… another city, maybe north of here… and somewhere cheaper, too. It's too expensive to live here. I didn't know how _high _everything was here in California." She wiped her eyes. "Tommy, oh honey, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've gone about it all wrong. I didn't know what to do."

"Brendan shoulda been with us," he said bitterly.

Mom patted his shoulders and stepped back farther. "We have to – I have to – " She broke off, and closed her eyes. "I have to go check out of this place, and I need you to start packing up your things. We have to get on the road. Let me go take a shower really quick, I smell like work. And then we'll go."

"What, tonight? Mom, you're tired. I'm tired. And we don't know where the hell we're going." Tommy fought panic hard. We just need a plan, a plan, that's all. We need a plan. I could do this so much better if I weren't so tired.

"Watch your language, please, young man." Mom shot him a threatening glare. She grabbed some clothes out of her bag and went into the bathroom.

Tommy sat back down on his bed. There was a terrible anger in his chest – was it him? Was it his fault? It couldn't really be. He wasn't that bad a person. Mom was a _good_ person. Why did all the shitty stuff keep happening to them? And why wasn't Brendan with them? What had Tommy ever done to Brendan, that would make Brendan ditch them like he did? He didn't _get it._ He absolutely did not.

He brooded about it until Mom came out of the bathroom, clean and dressed for the road. She opened the door and went out, heading for the manager's office.

Tommy followed her, barefoot. "Mom? Why don't we just go in the morning? I don't know how far we'd get tonight, we're both pretty ragged out."

"Because if we don't go tonight, we'll owe for another week here." She yanked open the office door and went in, Tommy on her heels, but no one was there. "Oh, _shoot. _Now where's Curtis?" She sounded close to tears.

"Maybe he'd let us just stay if we paid a nightly rate."

"There are no nightly rates here! And I don't know how long it will take your father to find us, but I do know that the faster we get on the road, the better. Because I'm _not _going to hang around here like a sitting duck and have him chase us down. I am not goin' back!"

Tommy got a firm but gentle grip on her upper arms, without even thinking about it. It was a move Brendan had pulled on him all the time when he wanted Tommy's full attention. "Well, I'm not goin' back either, not and let him smack you around again. Ever. He'd have to go through me."

"Oh, honey," Mom said, and closed her eyes briefly. "Don't you see, he _did _go through you… and he'd do it again, if you got in his way. We have to move on, so he can't find us. We have to go tonight."

"We're so tired," Tommy reminded her. "And your ribs don't look any better than mine, you need some rest. You ain't gonna get it on the road."

Mom started to say something, but then she looked over his shoulder and gasped. "Oh, Curtis. I didn't see you."

_Well, shit. So much for keeping secrets_. Tommy let go of Mom's arms and turned around warily.

"So you, um, you two need to check out tonight?" Curtis asked quietly. He wouldn't look at Tommy's face, and Tommy knew he'd heard them talking. They'd have to be very careful about what they said in public.

"Yes, please," Mom said, regaining her composure. "It's been nice, but we need to be heading out of town."

"Well…" Curtis said, and scratched his stubbly chin. "You know, I got two other rooms open. And it's almost six. Nobody's going to be wanting a weekly room at this hour. No skin off my nose if that room stays occupied until nine a.m. Sunday. You been good tenants."

Mom blinked. "Well, that's awfully nice of you, Curtis, but I think we'd best be moving on tonight. Can I drop the keys off with you when we've got the car packed up?"

"Oh sure." Curtis pointed to the room they were standing in front of. "That's me, Room 1. Just knock when you're ready. Need any help loading up?"

"I think we can manage, thank you," Mom said. "That's very kind."

"Whatever you say," Curtis said. He nodded at Mom and gave Tommy a sympathetic look. "You got a good boy there."

"Yes, I do," Mom agreed. "I'll be back with the keys in a little while."

They didn't speak as Mom cooked scrambled eggs in a bowl in the microwave and Tommy packed everything it was practical to pack. They ate eggs and bread with jam, and drank the whole quart of milk. Then Mom did a quick sweep of the room for anything left behind, while Tommy washed up the dishes they'd gotten dirty and finished packing all the rest into the car.

Mom looked around at the room. "We'll find a place, Tommy. Don't worry. We'll find something better." She closed the door and went to hand the keys to Curtis, while Tommy looked at the map and tried to think where in the world they could go. North on US 101? South on I-5? They sure as hell were not heading back east, not if Tommy had anything to do with it.

It did turn out to be north on 101, and they saw very few cars. Fewer towns, even when the road was close to the ocean. They didn't talk much. As the miles unrolled under the tires, Tommy kept seeing in his memory a red Hot Wheels car he'd owned when he was maybe eight years old. He'd accidentally dropped it into a storm drain in the road, and could see it sitting there just out of reach. Not being able to stick his hand in and get it drove him crazy, and Brendan had found him trying to retrieve it with a stick, some string, and a magnet.

Neither one of them could get it out of the drain. And the next day it rained while they were at school, and when Tommy came home, the car was gone.

He felt as if he were that toy car now – gone, lost, slipped out of reach, farther and farther away every minute. It was a lonely thing, being out of reach.

**A/N: According to my research (which, I grant, is not exhaustive, and I'm not a lawyer nor a tax professional), it would probably have been very difficult for Paddy to have gotten Mary Frances' address via her SSN, particularly if she was using a different surname. But I see her as being the sort of person who has fears of authority, probably because it hasn't been much of a friend to her throughout her life, and who might think that simply using her SSN would lead to some kind of official report being sent to her last known address. Thus she would fear pursuit, and might very easily become afraid of working at a job where she would be required to supply her official documentation. **

**More on finding someone who doesn't want to be found later on in the fic – much later – but I will discuss it further at that time.**


	13. Chapter 13: Once We Hit the Water

**FoF Ch 13 Once We Hit the Water, We Drove North, Too**

It was right at seven pm when Mom closed the driver's side door with a solid _thunk,_ and they lurched out of the Stay-A-While's parking lot. Tommy looked back once, to see Curtis standing there with his hand up. Mom didn't look back at all. Instead, she scanned the road signs intently as she drove. "We're looking for US Route 101," she said. "Help me find it."

They saw it at the same time, the sign for the Redwood Highway. Mom smoothly merged off the city streets onto the highway, and they traveled north. Mom drove; Tommy stared. It wasn't long before they were driving alongside the ocean. He'd seen the ocean before, but not the Pacific. It wasn't as dirty gray-green as the Atlantic, and the waves were much bigger. At some points, there was a high ridge of land to their right, and the ocean off to the left. Sometimes there was beach, but more often it was just rocks. Sometimes they were driving through enormous redwood trees, like something out of a dream.

It was _beautiful._ It made his chest hurt, because Brendan wasn't there to see it, and because they were alone. Because Pop might still come after them, and they didn't have a place to stay, and all that stood between them and dying homeless and starving was $356.87.

Mom sat stiffly, her neck and shoulders tense. That would wear her out. "Mom, look," he said, and pointed. "It's beautiful here, ain't it?"

She looked quickly, and then looked back again. Her voice softened. "It is." She sighed. "Tommy, I am sorry I dragged you on this wild goose chase. It's - it's not what you expected, was it?"

"I expected Richmond," he admitted. "East Coast. Finding a job and an apartment and not hidin' anymore. But Mom? It wasn't your fault we had to choose. We had to choose, and I'm glad I picked you." He shoved down the ache under a flare of anger that Brendan hadn't chosen them. _Screw him. _"We might as well appreciate what we got, you know?"

She laughed, a little ruefully. "We might as well. You're right, it is beautiful."

When they got to Crescent City, near the northern border of California, it was after midnight and Tommy had been dozing off and on for a couple of hours. Mom started to yawn. "I think," she said, and stopped to yawn again, "I think we should stop here. Find a place to sleep."

"Fine," Tommy said.

"I haven't seen any truck stops," Mom said. "Wonder if… hmm. Worth a shot." She pulled off the main road and they drove into town, which was pretty dead at this time of night. The Wal-Mart was lit up, though, and Mom pulled into the parking lot. "Come with me, please."

Once inside the store with their toiletries bag, they brushed their teeth and bought some bottled water and Pop-Tarts, and then Mom asked if she could speak with the manager. The clerk looked surprised, but she said, "No problem," and pointed them to the customer service area. Mom marched right over.

Where had all this confidence come from, Tommy wondered, watching her chin go up and her shoulders go back, when two weeks ago she was doing her best to placate Pop and look small all the time?

Mom introduced herself and Tommy to the night manager, and then she asked whether it would be all right if they slept in their car in the parking lot. They'd be on their way in the morning, she assured him.

The manager, a tired-looking middle-aged guy with bags under his eyes and a receding hairline, looked indecisive. Then he looked at the bag Mom was holding, at her hopeful face, and he nodded reluctantly. "Just the two of you?"

"Absolutely."

"You're from out of town?"

"Out of _state,_" Mom corrected him gleefully, and Tommy started to wonder if she wasn't punchy from lack of sleep.

"Well… all right." He pointed to one side of the building. "There's a spot in the parking lot on that side that isn't lit quite as bright as the rest of the lot. It_ is _lighted," he added quickly, as if Mom thought he was trying to put them somewhere unsafe, "but you might sleep better there. The delivery trucks usually come to the back through the other entrance, so it's a little quieter too. Go ahead and give me your license plate info, and I'll let the security guys know you have permission to be there."

"Thank you very much," Mom said, with a lot of gratitude in her voice, and Tommy echoed her.

"No trouble," the manager said. "Good luck to you."

So they went out and fixed up blankets in the windows the way they had done at truck stops, and got settled to sleep in the car. They both conked out pretty fast, worn out from the uncertainty and the fear, but feeling that, at least for now, they were relatively safe.

* * *

In the morning, they were on the road early, having looked at the atlas over Pop-Tarts and determined that the road they were on didn't really run through any larger cities. They decided to cut through Grants Pass on Rt. 199 (still the Redwood Highway) over to I-5 and head north that way, and that's what they did. This time, no car games. Tommy drove for a couple of hours in the morning since he was fresh and the traffic wasn't bad, and on the way he kept picturing Pop, what would Pop say if he knew where they were…

He imagined telling his father the lengths they'd gone to, to get away from him. It was sweet vindication, imagining saying all the things he'd wanted to say to his father: _Pop, you bullying bastard, pick on somebody your own size for once. What kind of man punches his wife and kicks his kid? A goddamn coward, that's what kind – either that, or a guy with balls so big he doesn't even care what's right._

But even the imagined words left a bitter taste in his mouth, because if Tommy was honest, that was never what he'd wanted. If he'd gotten what he'd wanted, they'd still be at home. And Pop would be a real father like other kids' fathers, not a drunk who smashed things and people because he thought his life sucked.

Tommy let himself feel that one pure bolt of longing, and then he stuffed it down under the anger. The anger helped; it let him focus. It let him cope.

Because Mom wanted to, they stopped in Eugene. Tommy thought it looked okay, but there was nothing about it that called to him, not like Santa Rosa. Or Denver. And Mom said she couldn't live in a place with such a dumb name, so they got back into the car and Mom drove on. They stopped in Salem, too, and it was prettier. A river and a valley, and wineries around. But Mom sighed. "It's the state capital. Let's avoid that." Tommy agreed, mostly because wineries plus state employment in the area meant people had good jobs and expenses would be high.

They drove on. They stopped in Portland and ate peanut butter sandwiches with apples, and they walked around a little. Tommy liked the look of Mt. Hood on the horizon, and he liked the river and the bridges. Portland was nothing like Pittsburgh, except maybe for the bridges, but he liked it anyway. But Mom kept not finding churches within easy distance, and she looked askance at the gay guys in hot pants roller-skating hand-in-hand down the city streets – especially because _nobody else _was looking at them funny – and the hand-lettered signs they kept seeing, the ones that said, "Keep Portland Weird," she didn't like those either.

"Not here," she said firmly to Tommy, and he shrugged and got back into the car.

Later, they were into Washington State, driving north and west through Vancouver and Centralia and Olympia, stopping just long enough to buy gas and for Mom to look around, frown, and say, "Not here, either," even though Tommy had no idea what she was basing her decision on. It was just after 6 pm when they pulled into the outskirts of Tacoma, and Tommy's stomach growled.

Mom looked across at him and smiled. "Hungry, huh?" It was such a _duh _question that he just grinned back and didn't answer. "Okay, then," she said, "let's feed you. Growin' boy." She mussed his hair, and then shook her head. "You _really_ need a haircut. I'll do it soon."

They stopped at a hole-in-the-wall kind of place not far off the interstate, called Skipper's Café. It was the kind of place Pop would have liked, actually, Tommy thought to himself: a real greasy-spoon sort of place, with meatloaf and mac-n-cheese on the menu. Blue-collar and blue plate, the kind of stuff Mom might cook at home. He had roast beef and Mom had baked chicken, and they ate real vegetables, which was a nice change after so much tossed salad and canned green beans.

There was some kind of disturbance going on at the other end of the restaurant, though, with one of the waitresses. She kept banging in and out of the kitchen, looking like a thundercloud, and once she yelled into the kitchen loud enough for everybody to hear her, "I'm not working another double shift, Vince!"

And somebody (Tommy guessed it might be Vince) yelled back, "You get off at midnight, Ashley. After you clock out, we'll settle up."

"Asshole," the waitress muttered, and slammed a plate down.

Their own waitress, wearing a nametag that said "Sarah," was younger than Mom in her mint-green outfit. She'd been bringing them extra iced tea, but she rolled her eyes at the other waitress' outburst.

"Everything okay?" Mom asked.

"It's fine, she's just in one of her moods," Sarah said. "Probably wants to get off and go score some drugs." And then she bit her lip. "It's not that bad around here. Really. I know everybody says Tacoma's ghetto, but it's really not. It's just sort of… sprinkled with the wrong kind of people. And she's not usually so awful." Mom raised her eyebrows at the waitress, and Sarah leaned closer to her and said, "I kind of wish she'd just go ahead and quit. I'm tired of working with the drama princess."

Mom made a commiserating noise. Sarah looked sidelong at Tommy and asked, "So, you want any pie? Ice cream?"

It sounded good. But no, the meal alone was enough, and he really didn't need the sweets anyway. He shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Brownie a la mode?" Sarah said, in a tempting sort of voice.

Even though he was mostly full, his mouth watered involuntarily. Mom laughed, looking at him. "Oh, I think he's a customer for that."

"Twist my arm," he said to Mom, and "Two spoons?" to the waitress. When she left, he leaned across the Formica table to Mom and said quietly, "You sure we can swing extras? I just don't want to be greedy, you know?"

"I think we can manage," she said. "I have kind of a good feeling about this place."

"What, Tacoma?"

She nodded. He looked out the window. Tacoma had a sort of gritty, industrial feel that they hadn't seen that much of here on the West Coast. And it did have a lot of small single-family homes in this area, with some small businesses and a scattering of churches. It didn't exactly look like Pittsburgh, but it felt very familiar. He'd been noticing that too, without really paying much attention to it before now. He turned back to his mother and nodded back at her. "I know what you mean. And yeah. Maybe this is the place."

She looked happier immediately. "I'll ask the waitress about places to stay."

Sarah came back with his brownie and he smiled at her, saying thanks. Tommy offered Mom a spoon, and they dug into the brownie. It was good – warm, topped with vanilla ice cream and a drizzle of chocolate sauce. "Not as good as yours," he told her, and she smiled, shaking her head.

"Such a sweet talker. You're gonna make some girl very happy someday, Tommy."

Suddenly the brownie tasted like sawdust. He looked down, licking the spoon. "I'm never fallin' in love. Not ever."

"Why on earth not?" Mom asked him, and took another dainty bite of brownie. "I don't regret for one minute havin' you. Wouldn't a' had you without fallin' in love, either, so don't get on your high horse about that." She leaned over and put her slender hand on his arm. "It's not always bad. There were good times." Her voice was soft.

It wasn't so much Mom and Pop, and their lopsided marriage, as Brendan and That Girl that was bothering him, but he didn't want to talk about it. Instead, he pretended to battle his mother for the last bite of brownie, knowing that she wanted him to have it, and when she laughed and pulled her spoon back it made them both happy.

There was more noise from the kitchen, and the angry waitress came storming out through the swinging door. "I quit!" she yelled. "Vince, you fucking cocksucker, I'm taking my pay out of the register. See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya." She no-saled the register and pulled out a handful of money, counted it, put some back in. Whipped off her apron, picked up a purse, and marched out the door.

Silence reigned for a few minutes. And then everybody seemed to take a deep breath, and get on with what they were doing before, except the guy in a blue t-shirt who came out of the kitchen and stared at the door.

"Well," Mom said, and rolled her eyes. "Never heard language like that in public." They'd heard that kind of language plenty of times from Pop, though. Almost felt familiar. He looked at Mom and shrugged.

The guy in the blue t-shirt was counting money in the drawer. He closed it, shaking his head, and said to nobody, "Now what am I going to do? Nobody to take Ashley's shift…"

"I'll take it," Mom said. She stood up. "I've waitressed before. Long time ago, but I'm sure I can manage just this once."

The guy stared at her. "You work 'till midnight?"

"No problem." Mom tilted her chin with bravado, and Tommy was suddenly so proud of her he felt warm all over. "Just hand me her apron and give me a pad and pencil. Might need a minute to look over the menu again, but it's pretty straightforward."

"All right then," Vince said. "It's about seven now, that's five hours. Two-fifty an hour plus tips."

"I think it might be worth three an hour," Mom said. "Cash."

"I think so too," Sarah said, hand on her hip. "Given that she's doing you a favor."

Vince shrugged. "Okay. Fifteen bucks plus tips, and your meal's on the house."

"It's a deal," Mom said. They shook hands. Mom picked up the apron and started looking over the menu.

Tommy walked up to her. "You want me to go on out? I'll just walk around for awhile, okay? I'll come back when it slows down in here."

"Fine," Mom said. "Thank you, honey. And don't forget to leave Sarah a nice tip there, okay?"

Tommy nodded and went back to the table with Mom's purse, putting several dollar bills under the edge of his plate. Then he put the purse behind the counter and went out, walking around Tacoma.

It wasn't all that pretty, not where they were right now. But it wasn't that bad. He couldn't see any slums or really rundown buildings standing empty, very little trash on the street. Along here, there were a few motels, the cheap sort, and restaurants and little shops. Places that did taxes, places that sold pet supplies… that sort of thing. Over to the east of town, you could see smokestacks, and there was a sort of sour whiff to the air that made it seem a little more real to Tommy. No, it wasn't Pittsburgh. But it felt like a real place, in a way that some of the pretty cities they'd driven through didn't.

He walked a lot, seeing coffee shops and bookstores and drugstores, CPA offices and garages and shady-looking jewelry stores; it still felt like home. A couple of blocks off the main road, he saw little houses that were about the same size as the ones in his neighborhood at home. Less brick here, more wood siding, but Tacoma produced timber so that made sense.

He walked until it got dark, and then he turned around and walked back to the diner. It was a good thing he didn't get lost easily, but he guessed that it was all that time spent running around Pittsburgh, noticing where the sun was and where he was in relation to the river, making him aware of surroundings. Here, it was easy to keep track of where you were based on where the interstate ran. There was a mall on the other side of it, on the west, and that helped too.

Back at the diner, he peeked in the window. Mom was taking orders with her cheeks all pink, smiling. The place was still busy, so there wasn't a place for him to sit and hang out. So he went back to walking around, this time flipping the hood of his sweatshirt up because the wind off the bay had started to kick up.

Funny how the darkness made things more lonely. It was the exact same as it had been two hours before, but something about walking the streets of a city in this kind of light was familiar, and it made him ache for home. If he had track pants on, he could run and pretend that Pop was following him in the Olds, pretend that nothing bad had ever happened and he'd be getting ready for Junior Olympics in another couple of months. Instead of running, he went through some basic wrestling drills in his head, letting his muscles remember how to move. He walked past an old-school boxing club, a dingy building with dusty windows. He stood there and stared at the guys working out in there, remembering how it felt to hit the heavy bag and jump rope and lift weights. When the guy at the front desk looked up and beckoned him in, he started walking again, because if he went in there he'd probably be so homesick he'd die.

_Please God let Brendan be okay. Please God don't let Pop's drinking get worse._

He prayed while he walked, keeping track of the prayers on his fingers since his rosary was in the car, and sticking his personal petitions in where appropriate. He had the tiny seed of hope grow out of nowhere into his heart, that someday, maybe, Pop would finally understand and sober up, and then, _maybe,_ they could go back. It felt like he'd left part of himself in that little brick house in Pittsburgh, and how much more torn Mom must feel.

He was waiting with the car when Mom came out of the diner at quarter after midnight. She hugged him, and then showed him a stack of ones and fives. "I made lots in tips – look, Tommy, $43! And we didn't have to pay for dinner. I'll go in again tomorrow afternoon, four to midnight."

"Okay," he said, hesitantly. "Don't they report wages?"

"They do. But Vince said that unless I worked long enough to get $600 in wages, he didn't have to take out any taxes or report it or anything. So as a short-term plan, I can be what he calls an 'independent contractor.'" Curtis had used that phrase too. "Motel tonight," Mom said happily. "Sleepin' in a bed, that'll be good."

The motel ate up every bit of Mom's pay for her five hours of work, and a little more too. But just living, plain _living,_ cost money. Tommy had never really thought about it before, how expensive it was to pay for a place to stay.

The next morning they went looking for apartments, armed with a list of possible areas to try that Sarah the waitress had given Mom. But even the one-bedroom apartments were pricey, close to $370 a month and two months' rent due to start. They looked and looked for a place like the Stay-A-While, but couldn't find one in this part of town; one of the apartment managers said there was one on the east side of town, near the paper works.

_Aha, paper,_ Tommy thought. _That _was the smell in the air, a pulpwood treatment facility.

Then Mom said, "Look, there's a church." She sounded relieved. Unlike in Pittsburgh, there weren't churches all over the place. Here there weren't many at all, much less Catholic ones. St. Joseph's, on 34th street, was a brick building with Gothic windows, small, probably poor. Mom went right in, dipping her fingers in the font and pulling her rosary out of her purse as she chose a pew and began to pray. There was no one else there. The church was still beautifully decorated for yesterday's Easter services.

Tommy followed her and prayed the same prayers he'd prayed the night before, with Brendan and Judas and Pop and Jesus and Mrs. Leahy all mixed up in his head, love and gratitude and loneliness and betrayal all swirling around like a tornado. He was actually praying so hard that he missed Mom's getting up until she whispered his name, and he startled back to reality. She beckoned from the door into the back of the church, and he got up and walked toward her.

The priest was a young-looking guy, maybe thirty, with a neat black beard and long hair pulled into a ponytail. He welcomed them, introduced himself as Father Weikel, and asked if he could help them in any way. Mom explained that they were new in town and looking for an apartment. Then she said how pretty the church looked for Easter, and how sad she'd been to miss Mass while they were on the road.

The priest gave them a few brochures for church programs – the food pantry, the Mass schedule – and then took out a printed map of Tacoma and marked the church on it, then circled some areas for them to try. "These might be single apartments," Father Weikel said. "You know, over shopfronts. They won't have amenities like laundry or a pool," he warned, "but they're usually cheaper."

Mom nodded and thanked him, and assured him they'd be back for Mass next week.

"Would you need a little help?" the priest asked delicately. "The church has a benevolence fund to take care of situations like this, you know."

"Oh, no, Father," Mom said. "No, save it for people who are really in need." Tommy thanked him too, and then they got back into the wagon and headed south.

They passed the high school, and stopped to investigate a small block of apartments advertising a vacancy. It turned out to be too expensive, at least for now, at $325 a month and an extra month's deposit due at contract signing. But at least it was a step in the right direction. They drove a little further, and turned onto 38th St., where all the businesses seemed to sport signs in Spanish or some Asian language. A bookstore, a travel agency, more of those little jewelry stores with bars on the front of the building… tiny restaurants called "Pho Dong" or "La Mesa," hair salons, nail salons, a couple of coffee shops…

Tommy saw it first: the "Apt for rent" sign in the window of Dao Phan Salon, one of several storefronts in a long brick building, with windows and doors trimmed in red. All the little shops had Asian-looking names – Kim Viet Jewelers, Nguyen Laundromat, Sago Nails, Trung Phan Restaurant – and they all looked clean and well-run. The restaurant actually looked sort of fancy from the outside. "Look," he told his mother, and pointed. She pulled into a parking space on the street.

The person in charge inside the salon was a tiny Asian lady, so busy with her scissors that they had to wait until she was done cutting not just one person's hair, but two. Both of the other people working in the tiny room were busy, too. Lunchtime on a Monday, and business was clearly booming. "You see apartment, okay?" she said. "I take you up. Ten minutes."

Mom nodded. While they were waiting, she leaned over to Tommy and said very softly, "I think they're Vietnamese. Isn't that interesting?"

Vietnamese, at home in Pop's house, would have been out of the question. Tommy had never eaten any Asian food in his life. The one time he could remember Mom asking to go to a Chinese restaurant on her birthday, Pop had thrown his bottle of beer across the room and thundered, _NO_. And then he'd gone off on one of his rambling diatribes against Chinks and Nips and Charlie and gooks, all the nasty names Pop had for Asian people. Tommy sort of understood him, with Asian people involved in the worst times of Pop's life in the Vietnam War… but all the same, it was their country. People were just people, and he didn't believe one group of people were any worse than any other people overall.

"Interesting," he said back to her. It was no skin off his nose, if they were nice people. Mom smiled, and there was something of a "so-there" smugness on her face, the same kind he was feeling at the moment too.

They went out of the salon, following the tiny Asian lady, and in again through the entrance just next door. At the top of the stairs were two apartments, one to the left over the jewelry shop, and the one to the right over the salon. "This it." She unlocked the door and pushed it open. "Not big. Living room, bathroom. Kitchen area." It was essentially a little box, with one corner framed off for the bathroom. Tommy peeked in; it was only large enough for a shower stall, a toilet, and a sink with exposed pipes.

The "kitchen area" wasn't separated off at all; everything was open. But it had a range and a sink and a refrigerator. The floors were old linoleum. There were windows at the front and at the back, both partially shaded by trees growing on the street and in the small back yard. The landlady was right, it wasn't big. Or fancy at all. But they didn't _need_ fancy.

"How much?" Mom asked.

"220 month. Two month rent to start. Includes electric and water." She gave them a suspicious look. "Not for six people. Just two?"

"Just the two of us," Mom told her. $220 per month, that was more like it. But Tommy knew they didn't even have $440 dollars. They were something like a hundred dollars short. Mom took a deep breath. "I'd like to think about it for a day or two. I'll come back by and let you know."

"Okay." The lady nodded. "You come back, you ask in salon for Dow Fahn. If other person give me money, I have to take. Can't save it for you."

"I understand." Mom offered her hand, and they shook, smiling at each other. "Thank you for showing it to us."

"Good day."

The Asian lady – was_ that_ how you said her name, Dao Phan? – went back into her salon and Mom and Tommy went back to the car.

"I like it," Mom said. "Close to the school, close to the church. No bells and whistles, nothing we don't need. I think we can swing the rent, if I can just scrape together the deposit." She put on her seat belt. "I should make another $50 or so tonight, and I'll sell those two necklaces I brought with me. Let me know if you see a pawn shop," she said as she started the car and pulled out into traffic.

The pawn shop gave her $45 for the two necklaces. That still left them short. "What about the church?" Tommy asked. "Think they might lend us the money? The priest said – "

"I know," Mom interrupted. "I'd rather not."

"You could pay it back," Tommy reminded her. "If we stay in the motel again we have to pay for that."

Mom got quiet again. "You're right. And they can only say no. Won't hurt anything but my pride, and I have to get over that."

She'd done so many things unusual for her lately that one more didn't seem any more miraculous than the others, to Tommy. But he offered, anyway. "I can ask for you."

"No, honey. I'll do it." They drove back to St. Joseph's and Mom went in, lifting her chin as she entered. She was in there a long time, more than half an hour. Tommy got bored and then, nervous. What was taking so long? He went in through the office door and found Mom just coming down the hall toward him.

Father Weikel lifted a hand, and Mom turned back to the priest with thanks and promises to repay the loan.

"No, no," the priest said. "It's a time of need." He smiled.

* * *

That afternoon they moved all their things in from the car. Tommy cleaned things inside the apartment – it wasn't terribly dirty, but it had accumulated some dust – while Mom was working at Skipper's Café. That night, they slept on the floor, rolled in Mrs. Leahy's blankets and quilts.

That night, Tommy prayed extra thanks and blessings on his mother, who'd shown a courage and flexibility he hadn't known she possessed. _That's for me,_ he realized. _On her own, she'd never have left and she'd still be a frightened little mouse. Here, with us depending on each other, she's got guts. _ For the first time in weeks, he felt lucky. _Guess I'd better quit focusing on what hurts, and remember how brave she is, doing things she's never done before._

The floor was hard, but he slept just fine.


End file.
